The Fastest Yet
by Racing Co
Summary: In 1967, Cleansweeps and Comets are the racing brooms of choice in the wizarding world, but a few Hogwarts students have plans to revolutionize the market. Deucalion Wilcott, a Quidditch prodigy, and Slytherin classmate Ivan Berdahl team together to design the greatest racing broom in history.
1. The Duke

_Summer 1966_

Visiting Diagon Alley always became an adventure in late August. Young witches and wizards, along with their parents, clogged the streets and stores in search of supplies before the new term at Hogwarts. Every store was crowded as wands, spell books, potions supplies, pets flew off the shelves. _A History of Wizarding Flight_, a clever book that had been charmed to flap through the air, was quite good at literally flying off store shelves. Sounds of excitement for the new school year coupled with the worried murmurs over a difficult class schedule.

For Deucalion Wilcott, who would be starting his sixth year at Hogwarts the next day, the only worry at the moment was getting to the Quidditch match on time. All his supplies had long since been purchased and packed; although his mother consented on him going with a friend by themselves to a match, she had insisted on checking to make sure he had packed everything in his trunk. Two or three times at least. Clearly, she only considered him responsible only in dealings with broomsticks.

Deucalion slumped down on a bench across from Quality Quidditch Supplies, a store that had only opened a few years ago. The fierce demand for racing brooms had brought the store to Diagon Alley, probably to serve the needs of Hogwarts students more than anything else. After all, how many adults were speeding around the countryside on brooms? A young witch, who Deucalion guessed was a third year, carried out a long, narrow box while remarking eagerly to her father, "I'll make the Hufflepuff team this year for sure!"

Not with that Shooting Star, Deucalion judged silently as he read the stylized writing on the package.

Perhaps no student had spent more hours — and admittedly more money — in Quality Quidditch Supplies than Deucalion had. Ever since his untraditional promotion to Quidditch captain of the Slytherin House in his third year, he had purchased six different broomsticks and didn't have the heart to tell his mother he was considering broomstick number seven.

Of course, his mother couldn't complain too much about his Quidditch spending habits. As far as the scouts told him, Deucalion was almost destined to become one of the best Chasers in all of England. He'd received loads of letters from the league teams practically begging him to leave school early and become a professional player, to which his mother, the well-educated Healer, disagreed to immediately.

At the thought of Quidditch, Deucalion suddenly plunged a hand into a pocket of his robes, a rush of worry building in his stomach until he felt the two tickets. He blew out a sigh of relief as he combed through his short, light brown hair with his free hand. He'd already checked his pockets at least a dozen times in the last hour while waiting for the owner of the second ticket to arrive.

Sure enough, the Quidditch tickets had not sprouted legs and wandered off down the street. Then again, in the wizarding world, that was always a possibility. Since Deucalion had been waiting the last month for a chance to attend the Wimbourne Wasps and the American Sweetwater All-Stars match, he preferred the tickets to remain legless at least until he found his seat.

"It's the Duke!"

Deucalion stood up at the sound of the familiar voice, searching through the crowd for the source. After a moment, he spotted the tall, sturdy frame of Ivan Berdahl pushing his way past a few shoppers carrying owl supplies while waving to get his friend's attention. After squeezing through the traffic, Ivan laughed as he shook Deucalion's hand.

"My father is quite a ways behind — too polite to push, you know," Ivan said as he adjusted his glasses. "So, have you got the tickets?"

Deucalion pulled the two pieces of parchment from his pocket and waved them playfully in Ivan's face. "We'll be the luckiest sixth years to step aboard Hogwarts Express tomorrow morning."

"We'll only be lucky if the match is a short one," Ivan said. "I was reading the paper the other day and learned that the All-Stars' last five matches have lasted three days or more. I hate to say it, but we can't afford to miss the train."

"Just hope for the best," Deucalion said. "But I'm not so much worried about the match as I am what the vendors are selling. Those American teams, as sorry as they are on the pitch, always bring loads of flying merchandise, and I'm ready to spend a few coins."

Ivan glanced at the window display of Quality Quidditch Supplies, eyeing the newest Cleansweep model as he unconsciously counted a few spare Sickles in the palm of his hand. While Ivan wasn't quite as obsessed with broomsticks, Deucalion knew it wasn't for lack of trying. The two of them could have drafted a better copy of the current _Which Broomstick_, and they had admittedly spent most of their free time last year testing the top speeds and capabilities of Hogwarts' old Silver Arrows rather than studying for OWLs.

Not that he and Ivan were bad at school, of course. They simply knew their priorities. Broomsticks came first.

"Are you boys plotting another purchase?" A quiet voice asked.

The two of them turned around to find the tall, almost stately, figure of Tor Berdahl standing behind them with a knowing smile. While he was usually stern about most things, especially activities relating to schoolwork, Mr. Berdahl always seemed fascinated with their interest in broomsticks. After all, he had equally intense feelings toward wands, and understandably so since the Berdahl family was famous throughout parts of Europe for their wand crafting.

"Father, we were just taking a look at the new Cleansweep," Ivan said as he motioned to the store's window. By that point, it was impossible to see the Cleansweep since about a dozen young wizards and witches were packed in front of the store, all eyes fixated on the racing broom that promised to go faster, fly higher and maneuver better than anything on the market.

"And I'm sure you were only, ah, admiring it?" Mr. Berdahl asked, though he surely already knew the answer.

"It's hard buying a broom knowing it's going to be outstripped in a few years by some new, more expensive, model," Ivan admitted as he turned away from the window with a sigh. "I wish brooms were like wands and could actually improve with age."

Although he had met Mr. Berdahl on numerous occasions, Deucalion always marveled at the differences in appearance between the father and son. While Ivan had dark eyes and equally dark, swept back hair, Mr. Berdahl had bright blue eyes and neat, blond hair. Ivan did inherit his Mr. Berdahl's seriousness, however; Deucualion often joked that Ivan had his father's distinctive scowl. Not surprisingly, Ivan's expression lowered into a frown every time Deucalion mentioned it.

Ever the proper man, Mr. Berdahl shook Deucalion's hand. "How are you these days, Deucalion? Your father is still on the broomstick, I presume?"

"Oh, Dad's still officiating games and loving every minute of it," Deucalion said. His father, March, was one of the top-ranked Quidditch referees in the world. Needless to say, the job kept him out of the house constantly. "He's in working a few matches in Asia this week. He promises when he comes back later this month that he'll buy you a round at the Leaky Cauldron, sir."

Mr. Berdahl laughed. "He owes me. Wilcott always swears to be broke every time we have a drink."

"But you still pick up the bill," Ivan interjected, his eyebrow raised.

"That I do," Mr. Berdahl said as he straightened himself to his full height and putting on his proudest airs. "I practice courtesy, probably to a fault. With you boys both in Slytherin, it's a wonder that you've grown any manners at all. That lot only pretends to be polite, if it serves their ends."

A few moments of awkward silence settled onto the conversation. The truth was, Deucalion very much enjoyed being in Slytherin, and he was sure Ivan felt the same way. There was a certain amount of prestige prestige wearing the green and silver at Hogwarts, since almost everyone in Slytherin had parents of some wealth or social importance. That, and the house Quidditch team was easily one of the best ever assembled.

A distant bell chimed and Mr. Berdahl pulled out his pocket watch in reaction. His sharp eyes bulged slightly as he read the time.

"I'm already late meeting Ollivander — that old bat hates when I'm late," Mr. Berdahl said, his face reading that he was eager to extract himself from conversation. "Can I trust you boys to make it two the Quidditch match, return in one piece, and reach the train station on time? I know that might be a lot to ask."

Ivan could not suppress a sigh. "Father, I'm a prefect. That means I should be responsible responsible. Duke is a Quidditch captain. That makes him sort of responsible too. Between the two of us, we'll be bossing each other right into our compartment on the train!"


	2. Seeker Imports

Once he and Ivan reached the crackling flames of Diagon Alley's regulation Floo powder fireplace, Deucalion suddenly realized he was still wearing his robes, something that had to change. And soon. Wizarding clothes were becoming less and less acceptable at Quidditch matches, presumably because it was becoming more difficult to maintain secrecy from all the prying Muggle eyes. His father often joked that pretty soon, the league regulators would start forcing the players to wear T-shirts and jeans.

The last time March Wilcott had been home, he ended his Muggle-dress rant by pretending to be a ministry official, which meant he'd speak in his most pompous, greasy-sounding voice. "Never mind the flying broomsticks, folks. Those are completely normal, non-magic people up there."

But Deucalion was suddenly struck with an important question: what was he wearing beneath his robes? He couldn't remember; after all, he had dressed hours ago.

Ivan already had a fistful of powder and was preparing to shout the name of the pitch ("The Meadow!"), but Deucalion wasn't budging. "What are you waiting on, Duke? The folks behind us are usually pretty decent people, but they get impatient in a hurry when someone holds up the line."

"My clothes!" Deucalion blurted out.

"What about your clothes?" Ivan's face morphed from his have-you-gone-mad to I-understand-but-you're-still-crazy expression. "Just take the robes off. Hopefully you're wearing something underneath, Duke."

With that, Ivan tossed the Floo powder into the fireplace and vanished into the green light. Deucalion struggled awkwardly out of his robes, only to discover that he was wearing some of his school things, including his green and silver Slytherin necktie. Clearly, he had selected his outfit that morning based on whatever was jammed at the top of his Hogwarts-bound trunk.

Ivan's going to have a field day with this, Deucalion thought to himself as he jammed his robe — his new one, the one his mother bought after he had taken the OWLs — into his backpack and reached for the Floo powder.

"The Meadow!"

******

After flying through a blur of colors and shapes, Deucalion stepped out from a crackling bonfire in the middle of a large field. Other witches and wizards were milling around the fire, waiting for friends or family members to arrive and talking excitedly to one another before walking down a narrow pathway that led to the pitch. The Wasps hadn't played a home match in ages, so Deucalion guessed the crowd would be even larger than normal even though the team was playing a pretty average American team.

Deucalion spotted Ivan a few steps away. Not surprisingly, his serious face was holding back a snicker. After a few moments, Ivan could suppress it no longer and let out a full-smiled chuckle.

"Starting school a day early, are we?" Ivan asked as the two of them began walking down the path.

Rolling his eyes, Deucalion began loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves so he could look a bit more casual. And a bit more like he was sixteen years old. "I just grabbed from the top of my trunk. Apparently, I'm a pretty sharp dresser when I'm only half awake! I really should try this more often."

"Forgive me, but I'll avoid wearing my uniform for as long as possible," Ivan said, looking very comfortable indeed in his jeans and light rain jacket.

"Perhaps the vendors will take me as a serious, young investor just off from a long day of work," Deucalion said as he and Ivan pushed through the growing crowds. "I certainly hope they do and give me a discount. My 'flying funds' took a cut when I had to buy all my school stuff."

Ivan smirked. "I trust you'll be able to plead your way into a bargain. Or blackmail. Whichever."

Once they had passed through a thicket of rather scrubby-looking trees, the Quidditch stadium was in full view, its massive stands rising clear into the sky like castle towers. Deucalion couldn't help but suppress the skip in his step as they approached the pitch, brushing shoulders with the hundreds of fans treating the day like some sort of pilgrimage. Nearly everyone had yellow and black buttons penned to their shirts or hats. A few had even painted their bodies in charmed, moving ink that rotated between phrases like "Go Wasps!" and "Sting the Stars!"

The Meadow, as the fans had started calling it until officials pretended the name was their idea in the first place, was one of oldest professional fields in England. While The Meadow contained all the modern benefits like luxury box seats and advertising boards, the pitch had garnered its share of lore over the years. The Meadow was, after all, the site of England's two pectacular runs for the World Cup during the 17th century. The Meadow also hosted a memorable game in 1947 when the Smyth Beater brothers knocked all their opponents unconscious at the same time with a few well-aimed Bludgers (needless to say, the Smyths' Apple Arrows team won by a stunning 1,080 to 30).

After a few minutes of walking behind a pair of torturously slow-moving witches gossiping about whether or not the Wasps' Seeker, Bradley Carrigan, had a love interest, Deucalion finally found what he'd been waiting for all summer: Quidditch vendors. Most of the wares were just for fans, like a set of black-and-yellow gobstones that emitted a faint buzzing noise, but some shops were guaranteed to have useful stuff for Quidditch players.

Deucalion elbowed Ivan to get his attention, and the two of them squeezed past the women to the shops ahead. Dozens of vendors had set up in a clearing in the shadows of The Meadow. Some were just selling handmade Wimbourne crafts from a kitchen table they'd just summoned from home, but others were obviously professionals that had packed all their goods into small, colorful tents.

By experience, Deucalion and Ivan were excellent shoppers when it came to anything Quidditch. Neither one owned anything with team crests or players' names, and that saved loads of Galleons. Deucalion figured that the only uniform he would ever wear was his own, and once he became world renowned, people could by clothing with his name on the back. It was that simple.

"See anything good?" Deucalion craned his neck down a row of tables, nearly all of them were crammed with yellow-colored Wasp merchandise.

"Maybe we're just out of luck, Duke," Ivan sounded disappointed. "I mean, what's the point of coming if we can't — look there!"

Ivan took off quickly for a broad, weather-beaten table that was squeezed in between two, colorful tents. Deucalion followed quickly behind, jostling his way through a rare group of Sweetwater All-Stars faithful. As he got closer, he was able to read the sign above the table: "Seeker Imports: The Fantastic, Unmatched Collection of Quidditch Goods from Around the Globe."

Although Deucalion knew the claim probably stretched the truth, he was impressed as he examined the table. Seeker Imports had all sorts of racing brooms he had never seen before, as well as gloves promising everything from better Quaffle handling to a special charm that would attract the flittering Snitch right into the user's hands. He even saw a few boxes beneath the table that looked like full sets of Quidditch balls that were probably priced well out of Deucalion's range.

"Fantastic," Ivan mused as he carefully picked up a box that bucked and trembled beneath his fingers. A small sign on the box claimed that the Bludger inside had been responsible for the death of eight rather unlucky Seekers during the 15th century. "Though I can't imagine what you'd do with it. You can't display it without having to carry around a bat at all times."

"Just set it loose in the Gryffindor common room if one of them starts bragging about how good they're going to win the House Cup," Deucalion laughed, taking the box from Ivan to inspect it himself. Although there were very few people he truly disliked at Hogwarts, he secretly wouldn't mind seeing a few Gryffindors get their pride taken down a few notches, even by way of wayward Bludger.

A few moments later, the owner of Seeker Imports approached, and Deucalion immediately put the Bludger box down, fearing that the owner would get upset with two students handling potentially dangerous wares. Instead of becoming angry, the owner, a hefty, middle-aged man, belted out a laugh that shook his whole body.

"It's okay to pick up the box, so long as you don't let out what's inside — that's a mistake I've only made once," the owner said, pointing to the side of his bald head, which looked slightly dented. He then placed both hands, businesslike, on his table. "Anything in particular you're looking for? I can tell you boys mean business."

Deucalion relaxed. The owner was the jolly sort, but more importantly, he was the kind who would take teenagers seriously. "You knew I meant business when you saw how well I was dressed, right?"

"Maybe a little," the owner chuckled. "But I mainly noticed how you two look like you know what you need. But what is it? A special broomstick perhaps?"

"Precisely," Deucalion said and began to put on his salesman airs that his mother hated so. "I'm looking for the perfect Chaser broom. Cleansweeps and Comets just can't do the job. It's got to be fast. Maneuverable in any weather. Excellent at stopping."

The owner began digging through a large chest marked "Unusual Brooms" and continued the conversation. "You realize there isn't a perfect broom, right? A perfect broom for a Chaser is the perfect broom for any position on the pitch. To my knowledge, perfection hasn't been invented yet."

"Something has to come close to perfect," Ivan said confidently, before admitting, "It had better, because if Duke buys a new broom, he's promised me his old one."

With a great sense of showmanship, the Seeker Imports owner removed a highly-polished, thin-handled broomstick from its box and set it out on the table. Deucalion picked it up eagerly, immediately impressed with its balance and streamlined tail. It was more lightweight than anything else in his collection, yet there was a certain stability to it. He read the meticulous writing etched in gold on the handle and felt a smile spread across his face.

"No, seriously? This broom is called the Super Eagle?"

"Unfortunately, yes," the owner said. "Despite the name, it's a great broom. Better than most ... maybe one of the best brooms I've ever sold. Super Eagles are crafted by an obscure American company. They're probably never going to be internationally renowned but —"

"Is that broom made of ash?" Ivan interjected. "No one does that."

Deucalion was surprised he hadn't noticed the wood, but when he turned the broom over in his hands, he saw that Ivan was right. Then again, unlike Ivan, he wasn't the son of wandmakers and was not always concerned with the ingredients of things.

"This is one of the first brooms I've sold to use ash for the handle, but I wouldn't be surprised if it becomes the gold standard," the owner answered. "Oak is just too heavy for Quidditch anymore. It's all about getting faster and more controllable, and the Super Eagle is proof of that. The Super Eagle is a touch slower than a Comet or Cleansweep, mind you, but it's much more reliable. A Chaser would never notice the speed difference."

"Can I try it out?" Deucalion asked, although he was pretty sure he knew the answer already.

The owner's eyebrow arched. "With all these ministry officials out? No. But do we have a deal? Since you can't fly it, I'll let it go for one hundred Galleons."

All things considered, it seemed like a fair price for a new broom; he'd paid more than that for his newest Comet. Deucalion turned to Ivan, who was always acted as his consultant when it came to purchasing. Ivan was a good judge of money because he was never afraid to call Deucalion an idiot, but on the other hand, he also understood Deucalion's irrational love for Quidditch.

Ivan took a deep breath; his dark eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Buy it."

Grinning, Deucalion began counting coins out of his bag. "That was the answer I wanted to hear!"

"Oh, I know," Ivan replied as he checked his watch. "We've really got to find our seats, Duke, or we'll miss the beginning of the match."

The owner used his wand to sweep all the Galleons into a box and thanked the two of them for their business, especially since it looked as if the man had not sold much all afternoon judging by how much of his stock remained on the table. Deucalion hated to see that much of his gold leave his hand at once, but he was much more thrilled to be carrying a brand new broom with him to Hogwarts.

Someone needs to build a better broom, Deucalion thought as he threw the box over his shoulder as he and Ivan left Seeker Imports. The world needed a perfect broom. Something fast, yet controllable. Something that can start or go in a single motion. As he followed Ivan up the flights stairs to their seats, a sudden, all-important question struck him:

Why couldn't we build that?


	3. Perfect and Impossible

"I still can't believe our parents let us come here by ourselves," Deucalion said as he flopped down on his seat next to Ivan and immediately began rummaging through his backpack. "Have you brought an extra quill? Everything's so so hard to find with my stupid robe in here. I've brought the charts, but it looks like I forgot to pack my — oh, thank you."

"It took some convincing, I'll tell you that much," Ivan said, taking a few crumpled Quidditch charts from Deucalion. He was still breathing heavily from the never-ending flights of stairs to their seats. "You know my dad's much more keen on me getting into wandcrafting than, well, whatever it is I'm doing now."

"But what we're doing now is very official business," Deucalion replied, dismissing Ivan's sour remark about his parents' expectations. Ivan was forever complaining about those sorts of things. "Here, you can keep track of all of Sweetwater's plays — I heard their Chasers can pull off the Porskoff Ploy pretty well. I'll make it harder on myself and pay attention to the Wasps. Maybe we'll learn a few things to win the House Cup by an even wider margin this year."

"I pity our opponents, then," Ivan answered in his most serious tone. Last year, Slytherin had defeated each House team by two hundred points or more. No one was as prepared for the matches because no one ran formations with the same precision as Deucalion's squad. He and Ivan made certain of that.

The two of them sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the excited hum of Wasp fans as The Meadow's seats continued to fill. Night was fast approaching and the stadium lights magically illuminated the dusky sky just as the rim of the sun touched the horizon. Deucalion could hardly believe the view. Wimbourne officials had given him the pair of tickets earlier in the summer, hoping of course that a few seats might sway him into signing a contract with the Wasps. While the free tickets were unlikely bring about a career decision, he did admit that the seats were fantastic and located in what was surely the most expensive box.

Deucalion looked down at his new broom, turning it over in his hands for a few moments. He could almost see his see his reflection in the polish and not a single twig was out of place at the tail. Of course, the broom would look new for long. He couldn't wait to try out the Super Eagle, although that would probably have to wait until he arrived at Hogwarts.

He began reflecting once more on the revelation that had struck him shortly after leaving Seeker Imports. Could a couple sixth years possibly build a working broomstick? Would it hurt to try? The two of them surely had enough brilliance to pull it off. Enough Quidditch brilliance, that is.

"Hey, Ivan, I got this wild idea while we were walking up the stairs."

"And what might that be?" Ivan asked. "Just tell me it doesn't involve flying out onto the pitch during the match to teach Bradley Carrigan how to properly catch the Snitch. I don't think Carrigan wants you pointing out that he's the worst Seeker in England."

Deucalion laughed. "No, this might be more crazy than that."

"More crazy?" Ivan said, a look of mock surprise stamping his features. "So you're saying you'd rather insult the Beater? He's holding a weapon, you know."

"Well, I was thinking that we ought to try to build our own broomstick," Deucalion said.

"Hmmm, yes, that is pretty crazy, even for you," Ivan said as he sunk into a thoughtful silence for a brief moment, poking his glasses back up the bridge of his nose out of habit and staring out at the still-empty pitch.

Deucalion always felt uncomfortable during Ivan's lapses into quietness, especially when he wanted an immediate, favorable reaction.

"So, what do you think?" Deucalion asked, standing up as a witch wearing a mismatched yellow outfit to squeezed past him to reach her seat. He thought it looked as if she had actually charmed her hair to become a living, buzzing beehive, which made him wonder if someone had actually bothered to create a spell for that. He shook off the momentary distraction when Ivan looked like he had prepared an answer.

Ivan turned back to Deucalion. "I know you don't want to build just any broomstick, Duke. No, that would be far too shortsighted. Too easy. What you're really suggesting is that we should build the perfect broomstick."

There was that word again. Perfect. Decualion knew Ivan was right; they simply would not settle for a sub-par project. After all, the two were not satisfied by merely beating their opponents in the House Cup. They destroyed them. Deucalion had long ago realized he couldn't bear being anything less than the best.

"You've got me on that one," Deucalion grinned. He could feel the excitement suddenly building, and his salesman's voice was returning like it had at Seekers Imports. "But what's wrong with perfect? We've fashioned our own water-resistant goggles for bad weather and those fantastic Chaser gripping gloves! What stops us from taking the next step? Sure, we've never done it before, but we ought to be the ones to build that perfect broomstick."

Deucalion could tell he was winning Ivan to his newly realized cause. Ivan, the son of wandmakers, loved to create things by nature. On top of O.W.L.s and Quidditch, he was the one who had developed his own Gripping Charm for the gloves last term. That was some pretty advanced magic.

Of course, building a high-end racing broom was probably far more advanced than that.

"All right, I'm in," Ivan said. "I'll admit I am attracted to the impossible. But you know, we're both complete idiots for thinking we can do it."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," said Deucalion, relieved that Ivan had agreed to the project even if he was still cynical about it.

The conversation was cut off when the announcer's voice came booming across The Meadow, urging fans to find their seats. Deucalion glanced at his watch: five minutes until the match. The crowds obeyed the announcement almost as if it were some Ministry decree, and the Top Box began filling in a hurry, causing Deucalion and Ivan to spend most of their time standing up to avoid the steady stream of witches and wizards eager to reach their locations in time. Deucalion recognized a few of them as Ministry officials from the photographs he'd seen in the _Daily Prophet_, but he spotted a familiar figure at the same time Ivan did.

"Get ready, Duke, looks like Lucius Malfoy's dad is on his way," Ivan whispered urgently. "He's going to try to buy his son's way on the team again."

Deucalion sighed. "Isn't it enough that we had his two nieces on the team last year? Okay, let's deal with him. Watch as I attempt to be polite, yet firm."

"I'll watch the show with great anticipation," Ivan said, rolling his eyes so obviously that Deucalion couldn't help but notice.

Abraxas Malfoy was climbing the stair towards them, pausing occasionally to wave stiffly at a Ministry head or some other well-to-do wizard. Like Lucius, Mr. Malfoy had a thin, angular face; long, blond hair; and a voice that became more or less arrogant depending on who he was addressing.

Unlike most others witches and wizards in the Top Box, Mr. Malfoy appeared to be alone at the event. Deucalion's father, who had attended Hogwarts with Abraxas, had mentioned Mr. Malfoy often attended public events by himself; it was a well-known fact that his wife was suffering from an unsightly — and perhaps incurable — case of spattergroit. A person as refined as Mr. Malfoy was surely not going places with a woman who was doubtless covered in purple sores, not to mention that she was contagious.

"Ah, well if it isn't Deucalion Wilcott, our young Quidditch captain, out at a match the night before school," Mr. Malfoy said, shaking Deucalion's hand delicately before turning his attention to Ivan. "You must surely go to Howarts as well. And you are?"

"Ivan Berdahl, sir," Ivan bobbed his head slightly and also shook hands with Mr. Malfoy.

"Ivan is on the House team ... he's our top-notch Beater," Deucalion explained, knowing that Mr. Malfoy was pausing to briefly discuss the Slytherin team, one of his favorite conversation topics with Deucalion now that Lucius was a second year and could legally take a broom to Hogwarts.

Mr. Malfoy crouched down on the steps to speak to Deucalion, who was sitting on the end of the row. Deucalion thought it was a very undignified-looking position for someone so extraordinarily pompous by nature. In his experience, Malfoys were all alike in this regard.

"Now, Deucalion, I wanted to you know that my son has been working very hard on his game during the holidays. Very hard, indeed. I realize —" Mr Malfoy moved himself out of the walkway to make room for a frantic-looking wizard wearing a Wimbourne scarf, who was taking the stairs three at a time. "—Again, I realize Lucius will only be a second year, but I am sure there would be some, ah, benefits for him being on the team."

"Benefits?" Deucalion asked, trying to sound unknowing though he knew exactly what was coming. Mr. Malfoy was preparing to spend a small fortune in equipment if that's what it took to get Lucius on the pitch for the House Cup. It was hardly a new plan; Mrs. Goyle had offered to buy the Slytherin team uniforms that were charmed to scream the players' names every time they made an exceptional play.

"Yes, all sorts of benefits," Mr. Malfoy said quickly, acting like the match would begin at any moment. "I know Hogwarts does not spend a good deal of money on the teams. It doesn't help that all the students must furnish their own brooms, so if you wanted, I could perhaps buy new Comets for the whole team. I've seen the new model that isn't even out on the market. It pays to have friends in the business, Deucalion."

Deucalion paused greedily at the thought of a brand-new set of Comet brooms, especially a model he had never seen before. He had always preferred Comets to Cleansweeps anyway; maybe taking the offer wouldn't be such a bad idea after all. He imagined his entire team whirling around the pitch on identically excellent brooms. Maybe putting Lucius on the squad was worth it.

Ivan, perhaps sensing Deucalion's inner conflict, jammed his elbow sharply into Deucalion's ribs, and the spell of Comet broomsticks was suddenly broken. Order returned as Deucalion looked down at his feet, where he had placed the Super Eagle. He'd just bought a brand-new broom and certainly didn't need Mr. Malfoy's contribution to further his already near-perfect team. And didn't he and Ivan agree a few minutes earlier to build the best broom in history?

"Mr. Malfoy, your offer sounds very tempting, I assure you," Deucalion said as Ivan cleared his throat loudly. Apparently, Ivan thought his jab had not knocked enough sense into Deucalion. "I'd love more than anything to have a new broomstick —"

"But—" Ivan cut in hurriedly, his expression reading worry.

"But, Ivan is right," Deucalion continued. "I hope you understand, sir, that I simply choose my team according to who is best. For integrity's sake, I can't let Galleons cloud my selections. And, well, it also doesn't help that I bought a new broom in the last hour."

"For integrity's sake?" Mr. Malfoy repeated icily as his stood up. "Well, I am sure he will make the team regardless. Enjoy the game, boys."

Ivan exhaled a sigh of relief once Mr. Malfoy was well out of earshot. "I was positive you were going to cave in to the brooms, Duke."

"Thanks for the elbow — I thought I was a goner too," Deucalion said as he picked up his charts and quill from beneath his seat. "Can you imagine if we let just anyone buy his way on the team? Granted, we graduated a few members, so Lucius might stand a chance of playing."

Just as he had finished his words, the announcer's voice returned to read off the starting lineups at record speeds. Deucalion and Ivan snickered when they heard more than half the Sweetwater members had colors for last names ("Whyte! Brown! Blue! Aaaand Greene!") When Deucalion saw the All-Stars fly out onto the pitch, he could immediately see how outclassed they were about to be by the Wasps. The All-Stars, in their red-and-white striped uniforms, seemed off-balance somehow; even their supposedly famous star-shaped entry formation lacked precision.

"And now, the lineup for your Wimbourne Wasps!" The announcer bellowed as the crowd at once began to make a buzzing noise that vibrated throughout The Meadow. The rhythmic humming became increased with each announced name before breaking into a full cheer for the Seeker, Carrigan. The seven players waved to the enthusiastically to the crowd, which if possible, grew even louder.

The referee flew out to the middle of the pitch to release the four balls to begin the game. Decualion noticed the official was dressed in the alternate silver robes instead of the standard gold because the she could have otherwise been mistaken for a Wimbourne player. At home, Deucalion's father had always complained with having to pack so many robes on officiating trips.

"There's the gold robes and the silver robes," March Wilcott would count off with his fingers. "But what about when the two teams are gold and silver? Well, the International Association of Quidditch answered that question. They decided we ought to wear these hideous pink ones!"

With a blow of her magically-magnified whistle, the referee released the four balls, and the match was underway. Athena Tackett proved why she was one among the best Chasers in England almost immediately. She scored a goal through the right goalpost on the first possession, and a few seconds later, she found an open Hugh Keddle, whose shot slipped through the outstretched fingers of Sweetwater's Keeper for a second goal. Deucalion had admitted to Ivan on several occasions that if he were to own any posters of Quidditch players — besides himself — it would be of the fantastically talented and rather attractive Athena Tackett.

Deucalion's hand was tiring quickly as he was hastily scratching down plays and flying formations, but the Wasps just kept scoring at will ("Unbelievable! Tackett loops the Keeper and scores, well, without really trying! And the Wasps lead Ninety to Zero!"). He turned an eye briefly to Ivan, who was sitting quite comfortably and watching the game, his Sweetwater charts untouched. There was not much to learn from a team that had not had a possession last longer than a few seconds.

Ivan suddenly sat at attention, his empty Quidditch charts falling off his lap.

"No way! Carrigan's already spotted the Snitch!" Ivan shouted excitedly, pointing towards the Wasps' end of the pitch.

"But it's not even five minutes in!" Deucalion moaned as he watched Carrigan descend towards the ground in a blur of yellow.

Carrigan grabbed the Snitch, and he lifted both arms off his broom in triumph before accidently driving headlong into one of the Wasps' goalposts as the crowd groaned in unison. His broomstick was immediately snapped in half, and he dropped nearly twenty feet to the grass below with a distant thud. Deucalion ripped his omnioculars from his backpack to take a closer look.

The Golden Snitch was still fluttering in Carrigan's hand.

"WIMBOURNE WINS!"

"What an idiot!" Deucalion marveled as the crowd shifted from groaning to cheering loudly, despite the condition of the Seeker. Deucalion stood to get a better view of Carrigan, who was sprawled out on the ground, unmoving. The mediwizards were already flying to the scene. "Do you think he's alive?"

"I should hope so," Ivan said as he was packing everything up. "We've seen worse. But what a way to go, right? I mean, Carrigan knows the risk of playing the game."

Carrigan's body lurched as the mediwizards quickly administered treatment. He sat up slowly, and the Wasp fans began buzzing with appreciation. Carrigan, who looked dazed, smiled vaguely to the crowd. Through the omnioculars, Deucalion watched Carrigan's happy expression suddenly give way to tears when he saw the state of his shattered broomstick fifty feet away.

"Yeah, those are the risks of playing the game ... a concussion, broken bones, and a beaten broom," Deucalion stood up and heaved his backpack over his shoulders. He stooped over a second time to gather up the Super Eagle. "Let's get out of here before everyone else is in line for the Floo powder. I guess we didn't have to worry about making it to Hogwarts on time. That was probably one of the fastest matches in history."

"Poor Carrigan," Ivan said, following Deucalion down the stairs. "I wonder if that broom was custom-built. I've heard the Comet Trading Company will sometimes do that for a star player."

"You think Carrigan's a star?" Deucalion asked. "He just smashed himself into a goalpost. I wouldn't risk killing myself over a match that didn't matter."

"Oh, yeah, you would."

Deucalion sighed. Ivan was right again.


	4. Nimbus the Second

When Deucalion stepped out from the fireplace onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, he couldn't help but think his mother would be extremely proud. Or maybe she would just be very relieved. It was sometimes hard to tell with parents.

He and Ivan had spent the night by themselves above the Leaky Cauldron and had still managed to arrive in front of the Hogwarts Express with their school trunks and owls still in tow. While Deucalion was certain he had probably forgotten something at home (last year, it was every single pair of socks), at least it was good to know that most of his things were on time. In fact, he was positively early compared to most years when he and his father had to jog behind the moving train and heave his trunk onboard.

For the first time since Deucalion had started school, March Wilcott couldn't see him off this year. His father had always cleared his schedule to take him to the train, but he could not avoid being summoned to the Japan Cup, one the biggest Quidditch tournaments in Asia. Easily Deucalion's biggest disappointment during the holidays was learning that his father was not going to be present for his second-to-last trip to school.

"Hurry up, Duke! It looks like it'll start raining at any moment," Ivan said as he glanced at the darkening clouds above. The two began dragging their belongings quickly towards the scarlet train, squeezing between a mass of squealing younger girls who were hugging as if they hadn't seen each other in years.

The other students seemed to be getting smaller every year. One boy, perhaps a second year, pointed and shouted, "The Duke's here!" Instantly, four or five heads turned at the announcement, looking around wildly until all their eyes were focused on Deucalion, who had long since grown used to this behavior from pretty much everyone at school.

It was as if Deucalion had whipped out his wand and performed a Summoning Charm. The boys, mostly younger Slytherin students by the looks of them, had suddenly dropped their trunks and gravitated around him, each trying to win his favor. He recognized one of them as Grindan Keddle, a third year who stood some chance of making the team as a Keeper. Another boy was Gilderoy Lockhart, a rosey-faced second year who was absolutely horrendous at Quidditch tryouts last fall. As for the rest, Deucalion had a short memory for people he rarely paid attention to on the school grounds. After all, who even notices first years after the Sorting?

They pressed closer and began asking questions that grew increasingly bizarre and unlikely, which made Deucalion suspect that they'd been rehearsing this conversation for months.

"Did you have a good holiday? I bet you were perfecting you signature shot."

"What does the Duke need to work on? His game is perfect!"

"Is it true you flew for the junior national team during the holidays?"

"I heard you flew in the real World Cup! That's true, isn't it, Duke?"

"Someone on the train told me you were dating the Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies!"

"Excellent, Duke! You should introduce her to me!"

"Only part of that is true — mainly the part about practicing this summer," Deucalion said with his usual jovial tone, although he finished his sentence with a wince. One of the boys had gotten so close that he'd accidently stepped on Deucalion's foot. "I did play a bit with the junior national team. I can't say I've ever met the Holyhead Harpies' Seeker, but she looks rather attractive on her collector cards, doesn't she?"

The boys all laughed, as if laughing would make Deucalion be more inclined to become their friend.

"Can we take your trunk for you, Duke? We'll find a compartment, just you wait!"

"Well, okay," Deucalion said. He shot a glance over at Ivan, who looked torn between whether to smile at Deucalion's discomfort or surrender his face to the Berdahl frown at the behavior of the young Slytherins.

They seemed so unrealistically eager to please. Just like house-elves, Decualion thought, but without the poor grammar and outfits made of outdated pillow covers. Keddle and another boy fought over the right to carry Deucalion's trunk before agreeing that they could — and should — share the load. One boy started walking off with his owl cage, but Deucalion put a stop to that. He'd lost a pet rat on his first Hogwarts trip, and the memory still haunted him.

As soon as they had arrived, the boys had vanished with almost all of his belongings, leaving Deucalion holding the cage of a reddish barn owl he'd named Quaffle. None of them had offered to cart away Ivan's things, so the two of them bent down to carry his trunk onto the train.

"Don't you ever get tired of that?" Ivan asked.

Deucalion laughed. "If the younger students want to treat me as king, so be it. I'm certainly not going to stop that behavior . . . mostly because I enjoy it. Of course, we have to bear in mind that they're only doing it in hopes that it gets them a better chance at making the squad."

"Sometimes, I get the feeling that they're too sincere about their devotion," Ivan said. "Little worshipful things, aren't they? It's unbecoming of a Slytherin — though I'm not sure all those boys were from our house, mind you."

"Oh, come off it, Ivan," Deucalion said, grunting as he pushed the front end of the trunk upwards. He now regretted insisting on carrying Quaffle because using only one hand to carry Ivan's belongings was becoming rather difficult. "Would you like some of that — what does Mother call it — 'unjustified adoration?'"

Ivan shook his head. "Not a chance! You can take all the attention you can stand, Duke. It would feel too weird to have everyone wanting to please me all the time."

"I'll admit it's hard to live up to their high expectations," Deucalion said, edging his way into the carriage that one of the young Slytherins, Lockhart, was pointing out. Deucalion muttered a few words of appreciation and shoved the back end of the trunk inside.

"If you need anything, Captain, just give the word!" Lockhart had popped his head into the doorway. He was bouncing energetically on the balls of his feet. "Um, I thought you might want something on the trolley or maybe —"

"I think I'll be all right, thank you," Deucalion interrupted. He could only stand so much adulation; namely, he could only accept it if people were actively doing favors for him. Luckily, all of them had vanished except for Lockhart; more than likely, everyone else found other friends to distract them. Deucalion's admirers, being mostly twelve- and thirteen-year-olds, had very short attention spans.

A loud commotion was coming from outside the train, and Ivan hurriedly pressed his face against the window before whirling back around with a look of frustration.

"Oh, wouldn't you believe it!" Ivan said angrily. "I've left Nimbus out there!"

Deucalion did his best to suppress a smile that was creeping onto his face as he looked out the compartment window. A very irritated eagle owl was rattling loudly around in its cage, screeching loudly enough that students nearby were covering their ears. One boy was shouting at the owl, as if that would make it shut up. Deucalion looked back at Quaffle, who cocked her head to the side and was looking very amused at the whole situation.

Ivan began pulling his robes from his trunk. "Stupid owl! How could we have forgotten him?"

"You might be better off without him, you know?" Deucalion said.

"True, but I doubt my parents would be pleased," Ivan said, pulling his robe quickly over his head. He removed his green prefect badge from his pocket and pinned it on, observing his reflection in the window for a moment. "Say, I've got to run to my meeting . . . the new Head Boy is very particular about being on time from what I've heard. Would you mind getting Nimbus for me?"

"Sure, but I still say it'd be better to leave Nimbus behind . . . or maybe hand him off to some unsuspecting first year," Deucalion said darkly as he followed Ivan out of their compartment, edging past Lockhart, who was left standing in the doorway.

Getting out of the train proved more difficult than entering, since Deucalion was now fighting against the students trying to get aboard, each of them dragging huge trunks onboard. After twisting himself free of the traffic, he trotted across the platform to Nimbus, who was still creating a racket.

Deucalion scooped up the cage and began rushing back to the Hogwarts Express. He felt a few large drops of rain on his head and shoulders, which caused him to almost start sprinting, knowing Nimbus would only get louder if he got wet. Deucalion skidded a few times on the platform but kept running until he had climbed back on the train; once inside, Nimbus almost immediately grew calm again.

"Stupid owl," Deucalion echoed Ivan's sentiments as he set the cage down in the compartment.

Nimbus, technically "Nimbus the Second," would win any contest for the most worst pet at school and was a horrible replacement for Ivan's first owl. From a distance, Nimbus certainly looked like the perfect owl, but he had a severe downside: he rarely delivered post. Often, he'd refuse and hide for ages in the Owlery, or he would disappear for weeks with a letter tied to his leg and return with the same tattered message still attached.

Ivan had no choice but to keep Nimbus, figuring an unpleasant, irresponsible owl was better than no owl at all. His parents bought him Nimbus the Second last year to replace the old one, an excellent pet that he and Deucalion had affectionately named "Nimbus the First," whose unfortunate end had occurred during their fourth year in what had become known as the "Bludger Incident."

After a minute of two of waiting, the Hogwarts Express began pulling out of the station. Deucalion leaned back in his seat and winced in pain. He reached back felt a knot that had developed on his head, suddenly remembering what he had done the night before at the Leaky Cauldron. He had been so desperate to try out the Super Eagle that he had actually decided to try it out in his tiny room.

He had only meant to lift off the ground a few feet, just to see if the balance was a good as advertised. However, his new broomstick was more sensitive than he had expected, and once Deucalion kicked off, he flew straight into the ceiling and bashed against a side wall before falling down on his bed with a loud crash. Luckily, he did not break anything in the room, though a few chips of paint had fluttered down to the floor. A witch with anti-age potion smeared all across her face and wearing a lurid purple nightgown appeared at Deucalion's door several minutes later to tell him to stop "bouncing off the walls," which was precisely what he had been doing.

Deucalion chuckled to himself and began looking for his notes from the Quidditch match. Try as he might, he could never get rid of what he called the "inner idiot." A small injury was worth the discovery that his new broom had no problem ascending quickly.

A few minutes later, the compartment door slid open, and Ivan's older sister, Sigrid, entered the room carrying a large box, grunting in a most unladylike way under the weight. Deucalion found the scene quite funny since Sigrid was one of the most beautiful girls in school. She had elegant features, bright eyes, and a long braid of blonde hair; she was also, unfortunately, completely uninterested in him as anything beyond a second brother.

"Look at you, Duke, all alone in here," Sigrid tutted playfully as she unloaded the box into Deucalion's arms. "What happened to all your little followers?"

"Oh, I suppose they got caught up in the excitement of being on the train, but at least they carried in all my things before distraction set in," Deucalion said, peeking into the box. He noticed a few pairs of socks, several new quills, and a worn, old-looking book entitled _Ancient Lore of Wandmaking _sticking out the top.

"Those are all Ivan's things that he left at home," Sigrid answered, although Deucalion had never actually posed the question. She turned to leave.

"Oh, don't leave yet!" Deucalion said quickly.

"But what am I supposed to tell my friends?" Sigrid chided. "All of my friends in Ravenclaw will think I'm ignoring them. Besides, it looks like you're busying working on, well, what is that? Arithmancy? Surely not!"

Deucalion showed her Sigrid his charts from the Wasps match. The pages were covered in scribbled formations with notes scrawled to the sides, and once he was in his room last night at the Leaky Cauldron, he'd written a few additional pages of observations. The project probably would have lasted well into the night had he not decided to try out his new broomstick.

Every chronicled nuance, every sign of of his Quidditch obsession was now in the hands of Sigrid, who'd unconsciously sat down on the bench across from him. Deucalion was glad she'd decided to stay but squirmed uncomfortably nevertheless. He'd long since learned it was impossible to impress girls by displaying his knowledge of broomsticks or the rules of Quidditch. Then again, Sigrid knew him well enough to understand his preoccupation with the game.

"Well, you spared no detail, did you?" Sigrid said, her face at once both judgmental and fascinated. "I can't imagine you explored your Potions textbook with as much gusto. You and Ivan certainly didn't study for them like I did when I was a fifth year. I almost never saw Ivan even enter the library, but he got ten O.W.L.s. Ten of them! I can only imagine what he'd do if he actually applied himself instead of knocking Bludgers around all day."

"You want to see my O.W.L. scores, right?" Deucalion asked, unable to ignore the hopefulness in his voice.

"Maybe," Sigrid said sheepishly as she handed back the Quidditch notes.

"You might be surprised to find out that I'm not half stupid," Deucalion said, pulling an official-looking envelope from the top of his trunk and presenting it with a proud flourish to Sigrid.

Silence took over the compartment as Sigrid studied the paper briefly; her right eyebrow arched so high in concentration that Deucalion was certain it was about to become lost in her hair. She fell into an Ivan-like thoughtful state before whistling in amazement.

"Nine!" Sigrid said breathlessly. "When did you find the time, Duke? You can't get an 'Outstanding' in Transfiguration by sheer luck."

"It's simple: I can't stand when other people are better than me," Deucalion said casually. "Even though school is terribly boring at times, I can't imagine being anything less than the best if I can help it."

"But Ivan —"

"Now, Ivan is a special case," Deucalion admitted truthfully. "He's brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

Sigrid's face flushed with pride, her pale cheeks glowing an attractive, rosy pink. "Ivan's amazing, isn't he? He does stuff with wands I can't even hope to do. Mother and Father have high expectations."

As if on cue, Ivan re-entered the compartment, and Sigrid leapt up and threw her arms around his broad shoulders. Ivan looked positively bewildered but hugged her back just the same. Without explanation, she left, clearly headed to rejoin her friends.

"What was that about?" Ivan asked as he crouched down in front Nimbus, who immediately began to hiss in disapproval. Clearly, the owl had not quickly forgotten being left outside.

"We were talking about your academic brilliance," Deucalion said, feeling a little put out. Sigrid had not seemed at all interested in the fact that he was one of the top sixth-year students as well.

"Oh," Ivan said.

Deucalion began straightening his robes, using a spell from a book his mother had given him. The spell was taking a bit longer since his robes had been wadded in a tiny bag overnight. He paused for a moment, lowering his want to his side before finally asking, "Is there any use trying to impress your sister?"

Ivan sighed because Deucalion had posed the question dozens of times, but he then began grinning because the two of them had long-since turned "Why Doesn't Sigrid Like You?" into a sort of game. It was always Ivan's job to come up with a new, ridiculous reason.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but she doesn't think you're attractive enough," Ivan said teasingly, trying to act serious but barely able to contain his laugh. "We Berdahls have exceedingly high standards for personal appearance. Oh, and you probably shouldn't have dumped porridge in her hair or stuffed dungbombs in her closet when you were twelve."

"Is that so?" Deucalion said in his most mock-scandalized voice. "I shall work day and night to become the most handsome man alive!"

Even though Ivan was only joking (for no one could fathom the selective mind of Sigrid), Deucalion still stole a glance at his reflection in the dark window. He had long ago admitted he would never have become popular at school because of his looks alone; he wore the awkward sort of features that would look well-proportioned when he got older. At least that's what his mother always reassured him.

Still, Deucalion resolved, people loved him on the Quidditch pitch because there was no one better. He could have a have a face like a Doxy's, and people would probably adore him. Popularity was a strange thing indeed.


	5. Nature's Nobility

The Sorting and the feast that followed never failed to leave an impression on Deucalion, though not always for the best reasons. As he trod the familiar path to the dungeons with the wave of fellow students, he painfully swore that he must have eaten half his weight in various puddings. His voice was worn out from cheering and sounded almost as if he'd captained an exceptionally long Quidditch match. Unlike many stuffy people in his House, Deucalion loudly whooped and whistled for each first year who was sorted into the great House of Slytherin.

It was a great House to be sure, Deucalion thought as he approached the blank stone wall that led to the Slytherin common room. He had always wondered what would happen if all the Slytherins at once had forgotten which wall was the correct one. That wasn't the case tonight, however. Ivan, who had been leading the first years, shouted the new password ("Nundu!") above the excited buzz, and students began pouring into what was practically home.

Deucalion felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Grindan Keddle, the stocky third year who had carried his trunk onto the train a few hours earlier.

"Duke, you won't forget about me when tryouts come, right?" Keddle asked, his voice full of that passionate love for Quidditch that Deucalion readily understood. "I figured with one of the Mulcibers leaving, there'd be a spot open at Keeper. I know I'm only a third year, but Duke, you were already captain when you were my age."

Deucalion looked around him warily and lowered his voice so only Keddle could hear. "Better you than Lockhart!"

Keddle chuckled knowingly and ducked back into the crowd. No one wanted to be Gilderoy Lockhart. He was always bumbling into trouble, even in his first year. After his abysmal Quidditch tryout last fall in which he'd nearly managed to impale himself on his own broomstick before veering well off course and ending up in the lake, Deucalion had coined the phrase "pulling a Lockhart."

Unfortunately for Lockhart, the phrase had stuck and was used in everyday Slytherin banter whenever a fellow House member did something incredibly clumsy or stupid. Deucalion felt guilty about the phrase every now and again, but Lockhart had never looked the least bit upset by it, which was a somewhat comforting. In fact, he always looked extremely pleased whenever his name was mentioned, no matter the context.

The common room was still crowded, but it rarely remained that way for long on the night of the Sorting. Everyone was either too tired from the travel or too full of food to stay awake. Ivan, who looked harried indeed, was buffing his glasses with the sleeve of his robes as he explained class schedules to an eager-looking first-year girl.

"—And then you'll take Astronomy at night because that's required too," Ivan concluded wearily. "Now, I wouldn't worry about things too much because you won't even be able to pick your own classes until your third year."

Nodding, the girl followed several other young, nervous-looking students towards the girls' dormitories. Ivan leaned back against one of the study tables and glanced up at Deucalion.

"The first night is the absolute worst part of being a prefect, you know," Ivan sighed as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, his face lit up at a thought. "So, when are you going to rally the troops for another year of Quidditch?"

"I've got the written notice right here," Deucalion said with a grin. "I have a feeling we'll be unstoppable again, Ivan."

Deucalion walked briskly to the announcement board, which was devoid of everything except for the usual warnings against magical joke products. He smoothed out a piece of parchment that featured some of his neatest penmanship and a moving green snake that was winding itself around a Quidditch hoop. He scanned over the message one more time for mistakes before tacking it up.

"Nice," Ivan said as he read the note. "'Three years. Three House Championships. Try out for the most successful Quidditch team in Hogwarts history, and help us shoot for Number Four.' Yeah, we're not the least bit conceited are we? Of course, it's true."

"I try to be honest — if it's in my best interests," Deucalion said. He accidently hiccuped aloud and was unpleasantly reminded again of all the pudding he consumed, eagerly thinking of his bed. "We both studied the numbers, Ivan. No teams have ever enjoyed our margins of victory. Not one."

"The 1846 Hufflepuffs came close, though," Ivan pointed out.

"Yeah, which was odd, wasn't it?" Deucalion said curiously. "I can't imagine Hufflepuff ever being good at Quidditch. They've been just miserable ever since we started school."

As they were about to enter the winding dormitory hallways, Deucalion noticed a sight he had never witnessed before: his other Beater was reading, surrounded by a small collection of interested-looking people. Surely Edgar Selwyn was not already studying for his O.W.L.s! From everything Deucalion observed, Selwyn probably relied on his admittedly ruddy good looks and social standing to get by in his schoolwork. Of course, that method only worked for certain professors.

Deucalion did not much care for Selwyn. He had that tiresome elitist streak in him, except that unlike the Malfoys, his family no longer wielded much influence or power in the wizarding community. Money? Yes, the Selwyn family had quite a bit of that, but March Wilcott often noted that the family gold was usually wasted or hastily spent.

However, Selwyn was an excellent Beater, so Deucalion was forced to act friendly. Otherwise, he was tempted to dump an entire cannister of Lady Rubyfield's Unbearable, No-Stop Itching Powder ("You'll be magically miserable for weeks!") into Selwyn's trunk.

"Are you doing some pre-class research, Selwyn?" Deucalion remarked in an airy, conversational tone, the sort of voice he would put on for his fans and admirers.

Selwyn smirked and lifted up the book cover so Deucalion could read the title: _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_. "We're just checking to see if all the new first years are pure-bloods. Imagine if the Sorting Hat sent us a Mudblood!"

The remark sent a howl of unpleasant laughter through the group, and Deucalion noticed that little Lucius Malfoy had managed to weasel into Selwyn's gang. He had an amused smile on his pale, angular face as he glanced down the names in Nature's Nobility, the book that, according to the cover, promised to be the definitive answer to all questions of blood status.

"Do you think the Sorting Hat would make those kind of mistakes?" Ivan said as he sidled up next to Deucalion. "I don't think it's our job to 'fix' things for the Hat. And what would you do once you discovered someone whose lineage wasn't to your liking? Torture them?"

Lucius ran a thin finger down the page. "Of course you would say something like that. One of those girls was named 'Berry,' wasn't she? I don't see that name on here. Oh . . . what's this? I don't see the name 'Berdahl' either. Is there something you need to tell us, Ivan?"

"You idiot!" Ivan reached forward and snapped the book shut against the table, nearly catching Lucius' fingers between the covers. "My family came here from Norway! Why would the Berdahls be in this book? Better check your facts, Malfoy, before you start making accusations about blood status."

Lucius narrowed his eyes in a menacing way and said nothing, but Deucalion could tell he was nervous. Ivan was no small sixth year. He was no slouch with his wand either.

"Well, better be a Berdahl and be a supposed pure-blood than a Wilcott and be a known half-blood," Selwyn said knowingly.

Deucalion shot a glance at Ivan, who already had his wand at the ready. Either he was preparing to fight or getting ready to stop one. Considering Ivan's hardened expression, both options were equally likely; he knew the conversation could only grow worse. Deucalion held up a hand for Ivan to stop before leaning heavily on the table and lowering his voice.

"Are we really going to have this conversation again?" Deucalion asked. Selwyn was always clung to blood status as the all-important factor in judging people, and apparently his friends had joined the obsession. "Sure, my mother's a half-blood, but me? A half-blood? Really, Selwyn, if you think that jab will work after five years of being in Slytherin, I'd be an emotional wreck by now. Besides, if I've done the math correctly, I'm more of a three-quarters blood."

Ivan snorted an undignified chuckle and lowered his wand to his side, but he didn't look quite finished with the conversation. "Just see here, Malfoy, don't get any ideas about terrorizing Miss Elizabeth Berry, or whoever else you don't find in that book. Besides, I don't know how you can put much faith in this anyway. They sell Nature's Nobility to make money off the rich; that business plan doesn't exactly promise accuracy."

"My father helped fund the book," Lucius said reproachfully.

"If that's all the faith you need to condemn other people, then so be it," Ivan said as he turned towards the dormitories, leaving Lucius with a murderous look stamped on his thin features.

"Just remember to tell our other Beater that blood matters," Selwyn told Deucalion after a long pause. "In a few years, Mudbloods won't be able to take a step out of their homes for fear of retribution. I promise that."

"You're talking about killing, you know," Deucalion said, hesitating. "Surely you don't mean that!"

"I'm just saying there's a movement going on that will finally purge those . . . unworthy to use magic," Selwyn said. What was that look on his face? Satisfaction? Glee?

"That's disgusting," Deucalion spat out the words.

"_That's_ what will happen," Selwyn corrected. A girl with attractive dark eyes and long black hair laughed airily behind him.

Deucalion knew he probably bore the most horrified expression on his face as he hurriedly left the conversation. Selwyn's comments made him feel dirty somehow, yet they seemed almost prophetic. Of course, pure-bloods have been disdainful of Mudbloods for as long as anyone could remember. That was nothing new. After having seen the book on the study table in the Common Room, however, everything seemed more real now. Selwyn spoke as if the war of words were going to become a battle with wands.

The Slytherin House had never promised to be most accepting crowd; after all, Salazar Slytherin had made it clear to the other Founders those many years ago that he did not want anyone of unworthy parentage to attend Hogwarts. However, Deucalion seriously doubted Salazar Slytherin would have whipped out his wand and started cursing half-bloods within the school walls or anywhere else. After all, there was nothing clever about outright violence.

As Deucalion rounded the corner into his familiar room, he saw Ivan lying flat on his bed, still fully clothed and staring vacantly upwards. Ivan remained silent as Deucalion kicked off his shoes and began rooting through his nearly overflowing trunk in search of his pajamas. Ivan, being a full pure-blood with parents in respected professions, had nothing personally to worry about from Selwyn' threats, but he looked troubled nevertheless. Maybe that was just his latest someone-stepped-out-of-line stern expression he had learned from his father.

Finally, as if he'd come to some grand realization, Ivan spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Slytherin has changed, Duke."

"I know."

Hours passed before Deucalion finally put his mind at ease enough to drift asleep. He could not stop thinking about Selwyn with his horrible smile and equally disturbing words. The idiot had just called for a strong-armed reestablishment of the pure-bloods, as if they didn't control everything already; there had never even been a Minister of Magic who was not from a long line of magical ancestors. Were those the popular sentiments in Slytherin? Deucalion sincerely hoped that was not the case.

***

Deucalion's thoughts about the night before were quickly set aside when he awoke the next morning to see Ivan stacking his school supplies onto his bed. It was strange to see Ivan energetic so early because he usually dragged around in grumpy silence for the first hour or so, but today was different. He had already dressed in his school robes, and a few sheets of hastily rolled parchment were sticking out of his right pocket.

He had seen this look a few times before, and it could only mean one thing: Ivan had a scheme. The last time Deucalion had seen him so eager before breakfast was the time he had been struck with a vision for their Chaser gloves.

"You've got an idea, haven't you?" Deucalion asked sleepily.

"We're still practicing before classes start, right?" Ivan asked back, ignoring Deucalion's question.

"Wha— well, of course," Deucalion said as he crawled out of his bed, noticing that the rest of the boys in his year were also in various stages of waking up.

"Good, good," Ivan muttered as he stuffed a few books into his schoolbag. He picked up his old Cleansweep and began straightening a few bent twigs on the tail before pausing suddenly. "Oh, we had a deal, didn't we?"

"A deal?" Deucalion asked sleepily as he pulled on a pair of socks.

"Well, you said if you bought a new broom — which you did — that I could have your old one," Ivan said bluntly. "I'm wanting to, well, redeem my prize."

It felt like a stone had been dropped into Deucalion's stomach as he looked at his seven broomsticks arranged neatly beside his trunk. He hated the thought of parting with any of them, including the ones he had not flown in years, but he remembered his stupid promise. Why did he agree to give away equipment that helped him be the best Chaser at Hogwarts? A better question was whether or not the Super Eagle would be a suitable replacement. He had not learned much from flying it unsuccessfully in the Leaky Cauldron, except that it elevated quickly.

"Very well," Deucalion said, feeling noticeably reluctant. "I've got my newest Comet and Cleansweep with me. Take your pick."

Ivan studied the two brooms for a moment, picking them up and studying the shafts for cracks or other damages. When he realized both brooms were in perfect working order (which of course they were), he rubbed his chin reflectively. Deucalion knew Ivan wanted to select the best broom, but honestly, there was little difference in the two, especially for someone who played Beater, a position that required more personal balance than anything else.

"You always used your Comet when the weather was nice, but took out the Cleansweep when it was pouring or windy," Ivan proceeded aloud with his decision-making process. "Does that mean you care about your Comet more, and your Cleansweep is something you just use in bad weather to save wear and tear on the Comet? Or is it that your Cleansweep is actually more stable and controllable, given that you fly it during storms. Or maybe —"

"Oh, just pick one!" Deucalion interrupted loudly, causing Nyles Cooper, who had drifted back to sleep sitting upright, to tumble heavily out of bed in surprise. Deucalion winced reflexively as he heard the thud and groan behind him. "Sorry about that, Coop."

Cooper crawled out from a mess of blankets and staggered to his feet. Thankfully, he did not embarrass easily and laughed along with the other boys in the room, going so far as to wrap the green blanket around him like a toga. "Well, that's one way to wake up on time! So, Duke, what's this about you giving away brooms? Or did I dream that part up?"

"I'm getting one as a reward for helping Duke pick out his new beauty," Ivan said, not taking his eyes off either broomstick as he spoke.

"That's a good deal!" Cooper remarked as he rubbed his eyes. "Lucky you, Ivan! Lucky you! So, which one are you taking? That Comet sure looks nice."

Because both brooms were equally excellent, Ivan at last resorted to the least precise method of selecting: closing his eyes and blindly reaching his hand towards one. After a few seconds of grasping at thin air, he grabbed ahold of the Comet and opened his eyes hesitantly before breaking into a sheepish smile. "Looks like I'm going with this one."

"Told you the Comet looked nice!" Cooper said, still in awe of the free broom. "Wouldn't it have been a shame if you accidently picked out Duke's old Shooting Star with your eyes closed?"

"Then I would have picked again," Ivan immediately answered as he swung the Comet over his shoulder. "You ready to get your schedule, Duke?"

Deucalion took one last, prolonged look at the Comet before freeing the Super Eagle from its box, which warranted another gasp of jealous, excitable wonder from Cooper. "All right, let's go. We should get in a good hour of Quidditch in before lessons!"

Scheduling classes was always a dull chore, especially since Deucalion had already planned what he was going to do when he left school. Unlike the more studious professions like that of a Healer or Auror, being a Quidditch player required roughly the intelligence of a rock. His desired job was a blessing and a curse because he had no clue which classes to continue on the N.E.W.T. level, but on the other hand, he could take whatever he pleased.

Professor Slughorn, the Head of Slytherin, was strolling down the long tables of students to hand out schedules, making great effort to stop his massive girth from blocking the walkway. Slughorn eventually reached Deucalion and absolutely beamed when Deucalion announced he was continuing Potions.

"I've got the Golden Boy!" Slughorn bellowed excitedly. Professor McGonagall, who had been helping a Gryffindor with scheduling, glanced up and shot him a disapproving look. "What else to do plan on taking, m'lad? It looks like I have you down for Charms, Transfiguration, and History of Magic. Surely you'll add one more!"

Deucalion looked down his list of options, as if deciding what to order at a cafe. "Hmmm. . . well, let's make the last one Defense Against the Dark Arts because there's always a chance of jinxing someone in there."

Slughorn laughed merrily as he handed Deucalion his schedule. However, the professor's expression instantly became downcast when Ivan said he was not planning to take Potions because he had scheduled six courses already, including the dreaded Ancient Runes class. Apparently, he needed it for studying his family's books on wand crafting.

Once scheduling was finished, Deucalion and Ivan slipped out the castle gates towards the Quidditch pitch, traipsing across the grounds still soaking wet from the night before. The two of them had long since learned that flying was the greatest way to begin the school day, weather and schedule permitting. Today was no exception because they would finally see the Super Eagle in action; it had taken everything in Deucalion's power not to forgo breakfast altogether in favor of flying on his newest broomstick.

"I can't believe you're going to take more Potions," Ivan said in wonder as he studied Deucalion's class schedule. "I always thought you hated that class. I got an 'Outstanding' in it, but I got bored measuring out little piles of dead bugs."

"Oh, you haven't seen through the plan, yet?" Deucalion asked mischievously.

"Being miserable is a plan?" Ivan answered sarcastically back.

"It's not all about misery, Ivan, although it will involve some of that," Deucalion explained. "The plan is all about pleasing Slughorn because he's like a magical gateway to privileges. If he thinks I enjoy his subject, he will let me book the pitch for practice as often as I want. Maybe he'll even secure some practice robes for the reserve team."

"And maybe. . ." Ivan said with surprising eagerness while opening a flap of his bag. "And maybe he will allow us to work on our little project without much interference." He pulled a few tattered books and presented them in turn to Deucalion.

Most of the books were familiar just by glancing at the covers, because Deucalion had copies of all of them at home, and his were all as equally dog-eared and used-looking because he had read them so often. Among the titles in the stack were _The Ollerton Boys: How the Cleansweep Revolutionized Broom Sports_ and _Racing to Market_, both books written by popular American sports reporter Silas Fincher, as well as the current edition of Kennilworthy Whisp's standard _Quidditch Through the Ages_.

"We're going to study these books then?" Deucalion asked, though it was more of a statement. It would not be the first time the two of them had spent time burying their heads in texts that were not required by classwork.

"We have no idea where to start building a broom, right?" Ivan reasoned, his expression becoming purposeful. "The materials will be easy enough to find, but the methods, well, who knows? I've never seen a step-by-step guide. We might as well learn from the best. . . because that's where we want to end up. The greatest broom makers of our generation."

"You really think we're up to that?" Deucalion asked in amazement. Only a day ago, Ivan sounded skeptical of the plan, but something had changed his mind. "The greatest of our generation? We don't even know how to start."

"I was thinking this morning, 'Why not us?'" Ivan said. His face looked eager briefly before turning into that famous Berdahl scowl. "At first, I had to get last night out of my head. That Mudbloods and pure-bloods. Idiot Selwyn and all that. I needed a distraction. That's what it was at first anyway, but by the time I started glancing through the books it got me actually thinking: this is possible."

"I'm glad you're suddenly interested in our broom business, but I'm surprised you're still thinking about that," Deucalion said, thinking back to the evening before. "I mean, it's offensive, but got nothing to do with you."

Ivan waved a hand dismissively before gaining a firm grip around his broom handle. "Don't worry about it. I just . . . I just don't like seeing things change is all. It makes me have to watch out for certain things as a prefect. Things I never had to worry about before. It's bad enough just making sure Gryffindors aren't throwing dungbombs in the old suits of armor. Now I have to watch out for - whatever it is - Mudblood baiting.

"But enough of that. We've only got a few minutes to ride."

Ivan gave a mischievous smile as he launched hard off the muddy ground on his new Comet, purposely spraying the entire front of Deucalion's school robes with water and dirt.

Laughing, Deucalion wiped off the cover of _Racing to Market_ and immediately realized what had helped prompt Ivan's change of heart. Randolph Keitch, one of the developers of the Comet brooms in the 1920s, was standing in the middle of his expansive factory floor and showing off the latest model to a crowd of reporters. Occasionally, a figure would dart across the cover; Deucalion assumed it was co-founder Basil Horton giving a broom demonstration (or perhaps just flying around for fun — he was always considered something of an oddball).

Why had he never noticed the cover before? There was something thrilling about it, as if the picture had become a mirror. He briefly imagined talking to the reporters and showing them through a giant warehouse of Quidditch goods; meanwhile Silas Fincher was approaching him for a book deal. It would probably take years to get to that stage, but he and Ivan were only sixteen. The possibilities were endless.

"Are you coming?" Ivan shouted as his shadow passed over Deucalion.

"How could I miss this?" Deucalion yelled back, knowing Ivan probably didn't hear a word he said because of the wind.

Deucalion fully understood Ivan's vision as he hurriedly dropped the book into the bag and readied the Super Eagle. Wilcott and Berdahl could become the next Keitch and Horton. Maybe even better.

All they had to do was figure out how to make wood fly.


	6. Clio Bridges

The Super Eagle was fantastic. Perhaps even beyond fantastic.

Deucalion did not mind that the Super Eagle sped around the pitch a touch slower than the latest Comet or Cleansweep; if he flattened himself against the handle, he could easily keep up with the faster brooms. The beauty of the broom was in its control, which was far superior to anything he had ever flown before. If he needed, he could take both hands off the Super Eagle without fear of decelerating or losing his balance. Just for show, Deucalion had actually hooked his legs tightly around the broom, flipped upside down, and scored a two-handed goal through the right hoop, all without killing himself.

After a few minutes of flying, he let Ivan have a go on the Super Eagle. It took only one lap around the pitch for Ivan to agree that there was something special about the broom. More than anything, Deucalion was pleased that he had not wasted his gold at Seeker Imports. The owner of that stand had a Bludger-shaped dent in his head, but he knew a good broom when he sold one.

"We've got to build something like the Eagle, but it needs to go faster," Ivan said after practice as he stared down the shaft of the Super Eagle. He had taken to dropping "Super" off the broom's name, probably because he thought it sounded stupid. "I've never seen anything that can brake like that. And the way it turns . . . it's unbelievably good. Now, we just have to understand how the charms work."

"Well, we're not finding out by stripping the Super Eagle down," Deucalion said firmly. "I've already given away one of my brooms today, as you well know."

Ivan smiled and shook his head. "Yes, I remember that transaction. But what if we dismantled one of your older brooms that you never use anymore? Like that ancient Comet 180?"

"I'll have to think about it," Deucalion answered, still painfully remembering parting ways one of his most prized possessions only an hour before. However, Ivan was right, as he always was. "I guess we'll eventually have to . . . I mean, if we can't take apart a racing broom and put it back together, we definitely couldn't build one from scratch."

"Of course, we're still ages away from that point," Ivan said as he stopped in the courtyard to dry the hem of his robes with his wand. Deucalion pulled out his wand to do the same, fearing the wrath of Apollyon Pringle, the caretaker, if he accidently marched puddles and mud into the castle corridors.

Ivan produced a neatly folded schedule from his pocket and studied the times for a moment. Deucalion looked over his shoulder and saw he had Care of Magical Creatures in a few minutes. Luckily for Deucalion, he had a free period, though it probably meant he should send a letter home. He had secured a long-standing position as the dutiful son, a role he meant to retain.

"Well, I've got to be off to feed Kelpies or pet Krups or something like that," Ivan said before breathing a satisfied sigh. "I'm glad we have this project. Although it will take over our lives, it helps me keep my mind off those idiots in the common room."

Ivan's expression turned dour and he had disappeared into a crowded corridor, darkly muttering something about Selwyn. Clearly, last night's discussion about _Nature's Nobility_ was still troubling him. Ivan was a hard case to figure, being a pure-blood and all. Why should he care what the fanatics thought? Maybe it was the duty of all the prefects to keep their eyes out for that sort of thing; it wouldn't be surprising if Dumbledore, the famous Mudblood supporter, had instructed them to keep watch for students who disagreed with his philosophies.

Whatever the case, Deucalion knew there would be serious problems on the Quidditch pitch if his two Beaters became mortal enemies. Some captains exclusively chose good friends for their teams or filled rosters with students whose parents had certain monetary connections. No matter the year, Gryffindor leaders always selected the wholesome types that got along, even if it meant a slide in talent. That's where Deucalion differed from the rest; he picked the best players no matter what.

However, there was one unavoidable problem to his recruiting theory: it would be difficult to win a match if Ivan and Selwyn ever decided to use their bats on each other.

***

When it came to writing letters, Deucalion thought it was easy to live up to his mother's expectations. Althaia Wilcott was very busy with her Healing position at St. Mungo's and merely wanted a note every now and again, just to know he hadn't killed himself playing Quidditch or something.

"Of course, I still won't be surprised to hear that Dumbledore had to comb the entire pitch searching for your scattered remains!" She had said sarcastically before Deucalion had left for the Wasps match. "That poor man ought to be paid more to keep the likes of you from killing yourself flying brooms all day and night!"

It was just talk. After all, his mother had agreed long ago to marry March Wilcott, who was one of the top-ranked Quidditch referees in the world and made a handsome living doing what else? Riding broomsticks while trying to avoid the ire of players and fans alike. Deucalion suspected she secretly enjoyed making a production over worrying about what was more or less the family trade. He knew for a fact that his parents met while his mother was a Mediwitch at the European Cup.

Deucalion reread his letter as he climbed the last few steps to the Owlery, tripping up the last few steps in his concentration.

_P.S. — Ivan and I are working on a little outside project. Dad, any ideas on how to keep a broomstick in the air?_

The postscript was just short and vague enough that his mother might ignore it and not worry. Of course, she had a very good reason to worry; over the years, Deucalion had broken nearly every bone in his body in the name of Quidditch. Anything with the word "project" in it promised further trouble.

Quaffle swooped down from the rafters and stood completely still as Deucalion tied the letter to her leg. He glanced up into the rafters of the Owlery and noticed Ivan's pet, Nimbus, glaring icily down at them. Clearly, Nimbus had not forgotten his rotten experience at the train station.

"Remember, now, it's technically addressed to Dad, but he won't be home from the tournament," Deucalion said as he balanced Quaffle on his arm and led her to an open window. "Just give it to whoever is home, even if it's Aeson, though my brother is liable to lose it somewhere."

Deucalion watched Quaffle launch off his arm in an almost silent rush of feathers and take to the sky. He leaned out the window and watched her slowly shrink into the cloudy horizon. No matter how many times he had watched her fly away, he never once stopped staring until she disappeared from view. He could never shake the mystery of it all: what was it like to fly without the aid of any object? With nothing but expansive wings and billowing air?

He knew it was stupidly philosophical. Poetic, yet a complete waste of time, Deucalion thought as he trotted quickly down the winding staircase.

***

Slughorn stopped Deucalion on his way to the History of Magic classroom, handing him two feet of parchment with the names of everyone who had signed up for Quidditch tryouts so far.

"That's the whole Slytherin House, isn't it?" Deucalion asked with a smile spreading across his face as he scanned the list. "And it's been less than a day!"

"Apparently, news of your brilliance travels fast in these halls," Slughorn said excitedly, his jolly, large frame bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. "Every first year signed the list after class this morning, I think. I hope all of them know how to fly!"

"We'll find out, won't we?" Deucalion answered as he continued down the hall, list in hand.

He never regretted letting first years have an opportunity to try out, a chance that was denied by every other captain in recent memory. It gave new students an opportunity to see what tryouts were all about, though their odds of actually making the match squad were incredibly small because of stupid rules that said the first years had to fly those awful school Shooting Stars and Silver Arrows instead of bringing equipment from home.

Deucalion was certain he would have made the squad his first year if he had only been given the chance. Of course, the fact remained: no first year had been on a House team in more than seventy-five years.

After a few minutes, Deucalion arrived at the classroom for History of Magic, a course that should have been vastly more interesting had the professor not been such a complete bore. Deucalion swore Professor Binns should have retired twenty years ago — if not fifty or sixty. March Wilcott once mused that his grandfather had Binns for a professor, adding that his grandfather always thought Binns seemed old all those decades ago.

The only good news of the subject was that Binns was so old and frail that classes never started on time; it always started twenty minutes late because he took so long shuffling to the classroom. After roll call was complete, class was already half finished, and no student would dare complain about that.

Deucalion walked into class with his book bag slung over his shoulder and was instantly surprised to see who was taking the N.E.W.T.s level. Rather, he was more stunned by how many people were not there. Nyles Cooper was the only other Slytherin, and there were only four other students besides him.

He glanced down at his wristwatch, and by his estimation, Binns would reach the classroom in a good fifteen minutes, unless he had downed some sort of "Scurry Along Potion" to make him walk faster.

"Duke!" Cooper called excitedly as he patted the chair in front of him. "Come sit in front of me, so Binns won't catch me sleeping."

"How do you know I won't be sleeping too?" Deucalion asked teasingly as he did as Cooper had asked.

"Like I care what you do," Cooper answered with a grin. "Besides, I know you're above napping in class. You'll just start mapping out Quidditch plays all over your notes instead. I've seen how you operate . . . Say! What's that in your hand?"

Before Deucalion could answer, Cooper had deftly plucked the list for Quidditch tryouts right out of his hands ("If that were a Quaffle, you'd be in trouble, Duke!"). Cooper hungrily looked over the list, snickering a few times at the names that appeared. Deucalion knew why: some students on the list were hopeless cases, like Gilderoy Lockhart. Still, Deucalion was determined to humor all Slytherins into thinking they had a chance.

Cooper dipped his quill in ink before adding his sloppy signature at the bottom of the list. "I know that it's pretty much understood that I was going to try out in vain again, but I thought I'd make it official."

"Come on, Coop, you were on the scout squad last year," Deucalion said, grabbing the list back from Cooper. "You have every chance to make the official team. We lost our old Keeper and one of our Chasers from last year. And frankly, I'm not set on keeping Ro on our team."

"Ro? Who's that?"

Deucalion laughed and then lowered his voice so those near them couldn't hear. "Sofia Malfoy. Ivan and I started calling her 'Rodent' when we were by ourselves because, well, she looks like one. You know it's true! She's got that pointy-looking Malfoy face. We shortened it to Ro because then we could call her that to her face without her actually knowing."

"And that's what everyone on the team calls her?" Cooper asked. He looked absolutely fascinated by the fact that anyone would publicly insult a member of the Malfoy family.

"Of course everyone calls her that — though most of them don't know the reasons behind the name," Deucalion said. "You know Ro's not too bright, and neither are her friends."

Cooper smirked knowingly and dipped below the table to search through his book bag. Ever since they were first years, Cooper had dwelled on learning "exclusive information" about people. After five full years in Hogwarts, Deucalion was sure that Cooper could pen a nasty, truth-revealing tome on everyone at school, including the professors. Thankfully, Cooper had the decency to keep most secrets to himself, which was surprising, given his inclination to talk at every possible moment.

Binns was still scheduled to arrive in a few minutes, assuming he remembered where his classroom was located. Deucalion looked around again to make sure he knew everyone else. Not surprisingly, there was Florean Fortescue, the Ravenclaw who was by far the top student in History of Magic. Amos Diggory, a decent enough Chaser, was the only Hufflepuff representative.

Then there was the red-headed contingent of the class: Arthur Weasley and Molly Prewett. For a Gryffindor, Arthur was likable enough, though he had an uncomfortably public fascination with everything Muggle. On the other side of likability, Molly had been indoctrinated by her older brothers to hate Slytherins, but rightfully so. One of her brothers, Gideon, was the current captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Of course, Molly's repulsion to anything Slytherin made her an all too easy target for teasing.

"Hey, Molly!" Deucalion called out.

"What do you want?" She asked bluntly as she turned in her seat to face him.

"Give your dear, older brother a message for me," Deucalion said in his most lighthearted voice. "The Slytherin team will embarrass his Lions in the House Cup again this year! What was the score last time? Oh, yeah, it was 510 to 40, but I imagine you were there. . . probably in tears too."

"Shut up, Wilcott," Molly said, her face starting to match the color of her hair.

"It's all in jest," Deucalion said, his voice still calm. "I'd let you poke fun at me if my team was that bad."

"You won't think it's so funny when we win this year," Molly replied in a matter-of-fact way.

Cooper, who had probably been trying not to snicker through the whole exchange, burst out laughing. "Like that will ever happen, Molly! The Duke's too good! And Ivan Berdahl is as good at strategy as the professionals. Not a bad Beater, either. He's loads better than that — who's on your team — Frank Longbottom?"

Deucalion glanced over at Arthur Weasley, who looked uncomfortable indeed. After years of being in the same classroom, Arthur surely knew everything Deucalion said to Molly was entirely in jest. However and perhaps more importantly, Arthur was now dating Molly, the girl who was more fiercely dedicated to her House than anyone else at school.

"Hufflepuff has a new Quidditch captain this year, right?" Deucalion turned to Amos Diggory, hastily steering the conversation away from the enjoyable but more uncomfortable topic of Gryffindor bashing. He would hate to put Molly into some sort of rage on the first day; he planned to wait a few months into the term for that.

"It's Ludo Bagman," Amos said. "He's a fifth year and a very good Beater too."

"Yes, but he's a bit . . . dense, isn't he?" Fortescue asked as he looked up from his book, seemingly for the first time since Deucalion had entered the classroom. "I mean, he did drink that bottle of Skele-Gro last year, thinking it would make him taller."

"He probably shouldn't have tried that in the Great Hall," Arthur said with a disgusted look on his freckled face. "That was a real mess when he chugged the whole thing and —"

"I'll admit to him not being the smartest in our House, but that doesn't mean he won't bring Hufflepuffs back to respectability," Amos said quickly before breaking into a handsome smile. "That is, if he puts me on the team again this year."

Every time Amos Diggory bragged about his flying skills, Deucalion battled a strong desire to roll his eyes. Amos was so laughably average as a Chaser. He never figured in as a potential problem when Deucalion worked out the game plans. Honestly, it often looked as if the Hufflepuffs were playing with two Chasers instead of three.

And Ludo Bagman as a captain? That was an interesting development. Deucalion had not seen a list of House captains, though he knew Gideon Prewett, Molly's older brother, was a returning captain and the newly promoted Head Boy. He wondered briefly who would be heading the Ravenclaw squad.

Suddenly, a girl breathlessly burst through the doorway, clutching a precarious armful of textbooks and rolls of parchment. With a few surprisingly long, leggy steps, she had crossed the room and taken the empty seat next to Deucalion while quickly warning the class of the professor's whereabouts.

"I saw Binns shuffling this way! Maybe we've got minutes — maybe seconds — to go before the fun ends."

As quickly as she'd sat down, she began rapidly setting out her ink well and parchment with bizarre, meticulous precision. Deucalion was sure the quill was pointing toward the parchment at a perfect, 45-degree angle. Once finished with her task, she sank down into an unladylike slouch at her seat and turned to him.

"I guess Binns is slow as always," she said. "I hope you weren't saving this seat for anyone special, Wilcott?"

"Oh, I'm not much into seat-saving in a seven-person class," Deucalion replied with a sudden sinking feeling taking hold in his stomach. What was her name? All he remembered was that she was that clumsy Gryffindor who had famously Transfigured Professor McGonagall's hat into a giant beetle by accident. And "Clumsy Girl" was probably not the name here parents gave her.

"Um . . . what's your name again?" Deucalion asked awkwardly.

"Clio Bridges," she replied, not sounding the least embarrassed. "Say, did I see you at the Wasps match the other day?"

"Yeah, Ivan Berdahl and I were there and. . ." Deucalion trailed off when he heard the rhythmic shuffle in the hallway.

Binns had finally rounded the corner and began walking at a painfully slow speed up to the podium. With withered hands, he lifted his heavy textbook and opened it to somewhere in the middle, probably just for effect. He never used a book or notes when teaching. The "Droning of Death," as everyone called it, was about to begin.

Before the lecture began, Clio leaned over quickly. "We'll talk about the match after class, right?"

The Droning of Death only had a beginning and an end; there were no particular highlights in between, unless Deucalion counted the time Arthur Weasley fell asleep and tumbled loudly onto the floor. The clatter did not phase Binns in the slightest, though Deucalion presumed that was because the ancient teacher did not hear it.

So Clio Bridges was a fan of Quidditch? Maybe she was just a supporter of the Wasps' idiot Seeker Bradley Carrigan. Deucalion had not seen any newspapers since the match, but he assumed Carrigan had survived his fateful flight right into the goalpost. It would have surely been the talk of the hallways if he had endured a permanent injury.

Deucalion had always enjoyed history, but Binns drained all the enjoyment of the subject from the classroom. Deucalion performed the readings and other assignments on his own time and treated History of Magic like his own study session on other things. In their second year, he and Ivan had learned to flawlessly charm other books to look like the History of Magic book on the outside. Both of them used this knowledge to get through the more tedious class sessions.

For his first reading of the semester, Deucalion had chosen to pour over Ivan's battered copy of _Racing to Market_ to look for any broomstick insight. He had picked that Silas Fincher book since it was closest in dimensions to his history textbook, which was always an important consideration when charming.

After what felt like an eternity — a special effect of a Binns class — the lecture finally ended, and Deucalion hastily began shoveling his belongings into his bag. He glanced over at Clio Bridges. Despite setting out all her ink and paper so neatly to begin class, she had ended up with a large stroke of ink on the side of her face and all over her hands as well. She did not seem to mind, however.

"So. . . Quidditch," Clio began casually, taking a seat on the table as Deucalion finished packing. Over her shoulder, Molly Prewett shot a disapproving look. "I thought I saw you and Ivan on the way into The Meadow, and I was right."

"Well, why didn't you wave at us or something?" Deucalion asked curiously.

Clio shrugged. "Apparently, it's not like you would have recognized me anyway, Wilcott."

"Ah, that's is a good point," Deucalion grinned sheepishly. "So, are you a Wasps supporter? I can't imagine why anyone else would want to go to that lopsided friendly against a terrible American team. I mean, I only went because the Wasps' management gave me free tickets in hopes that I play for them one day."

"It must be amazing to be that good at Quidditch," Clio marveled as they set off for the Great Hall. "My mum's forever in love with Carrigan. She broke into tears when he ran himself into the hoop after catching the Snitch. She has posters of him everywhere! All over the house! I can't say my dad is too thrilled."

"So you're not in love with Carrigan?" Deucalion asked.

"Well, I can't deny he's good looking," Clio said quickly. "I, however, went to the match just to watch some good Quidditch. Well, good Quidditch on one side of the pitch anyway — though the All-Stars had a good Porskoff Ploy, didn't they?"

Deucalion paused for a moment. Clio actually sounded like she watched Quidditch on a different level. For a clumsy Gryffindor, Clio at least acted as if like she knew they game. And if it was acting, it was good acting indeed.

"The All-Stars didn't really have a chance, but that was to be expected, I guess," Deucalion replied. "The only thing really good I got out of the evening was a new broom."

"What kind?" Clio asked seriously though she had just seen her ink-smuged reflection in a mirror and was rubbing her cheek ungracefully with the sleeve of her robes. An old toothless witch in a nearby painting of a bygone dragon hunt was laughing wheezily.

"You've probably never heard of it because it's an obscure American broom," Deucalion started. "It's called the Super Eagle. Even I had never seen it before, but I flew it this morning. It's incredible!"

"I'm shocked you've never heard of the Super Eagle," Clio said with certainty, half her face now bright pink from rubbing. The persistent ink was still there.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I guess you're too into Quidditch to have seen the Super Eagle," Clio responded. "It's the international standard broom of Quodpot."

Deucalion was stunned, though he was not sure if he was more stunned by learning the purpose of the Super Eagle or that Clio had known the truth so easily. "How did you know?"

"It's easy, Wilcott," Clio said. "First, you can tell because of the special coating on the wood shaft. You know, to protect it from Quodpot explosions. Secondly, I read Silas Fincher religiously. He's the American reporter, so he covers a lot more than just Quidditch."

"I'll admit to being very, well, impressed," Deucalion said seriously. He was surprised his jaw was not hanging agape, but it appeared to still function correctly. "How are you not on the Gryffindor Quidditch team? Surely you play."

"Oh, I'm a decent enough Keeper," Clio said, looking back and forth as if there were scarlet-and-gold spies afoot in the hallway. "Gideon Prewett only picks his friends. That's why we're so awful, but I'm sure you had figured out those reasons already. It's not like I'm giving away any important secrets. Anyway, I suppose I should be going. You are, after all, a Slytherin, and I've been taught that we naturally hate each other."

"Naturally," Deucalion agreed with a grin. "I can't be seen walking the halls with my sworn enemies, being as important as I am to the Slytherin House."

"But before I go. . ." Clio reached deeply into the pocket of her robes, pulled out a folded newspaper, and handed it to Deucalion. "Silas Fincher was at the match and wrote up a story for the Salem Gate. I found a copy before boarding the train. Go ahead and take a look. You know, sometimes reading Fincher's report is even better than going to the match itself."

"You saw me reading _Racing to Market_ during class, didn't you?" Deucalion asked, half-accusingly, half-embarrassed to be caught not paying attention. "I'm not good at disguising the inside pages."

"Yeah," Clio answered simply as she clapped Deucalion boyishly on the shoulder and strode quickly into the Great Hall, her messy bob of hair bouncing behind her.

Deucalion looked away from Clio and back down at the newspaper. How lucky could he be to find someone with a copy of the Salem Gate, especially one with a Fincher story? Instead of following Clio to lunch, he turned and headed back toward the dungeons. In spite of himself, he felt his face grow warm. He prayed no one saw.

That Clio Bridges. That clumsy Gryffindor with ink smudged all over her face.

She was incredible.


	7. Before Tryouts

"Why didn't we see it before?" Ivan mused again as he turned the Super Eagle carefully over in his hands, his face so close to the broom that his glasses were almost resting on the shaft. He rubbed his thumb carefully the high-gloss finish before picking up his Comet off a nearby table for comparison. "That Clio Bridges must be right on this one. It has to be Quodpot."

Deucalion had not fought off the shocking discovery he had learned from Clio after History of Magic class. A vendor had unknowingly sold him a racing broom for a completely different sport. Then again, did it matter? For Quodpot or not, the Super Eagle was probably the best broom he had ever flown.

"The Eagle has some sort of resin on the shaft . . . hmmm . . . and it looks like the manufacturers treated the twigs with something as well," Ivan continued. He then paused and the Berdahl frown of seriousness appeared on his face. "Did you check the rule book?"

"What's that?" Deucalion asked.

"Do the rules say anything about using Quodpot brooms in regulation matches?" Ivan restated. "Because — I'll be perfectly honest — I like the Comet you gave me today, and I'd hate to give it back just because you bought an illegal product."

Worry rushed over Deucalion as he dove into his bag, throwing about books, loose parchment, and quills in his mad search of his Quidditch rule book, which never left his side. He knew he surely looked foolish beyond belief to everyone else in the Slytherin common room, but he had to know: had he wasted one hundred Galleons for a broom he could not use in competition?

He had to know. But did he want to know?

At last, Deucalion produced his copy of _The Official Quidditch Rules and Regulations: Well, Most of Them Anyway._ He had once read the book from cover to cover, but he mainly used it when designing match strategy. There was a certain art to getting just to the edge of rule-breaking without toppling over the cliff.

"Let's see, let's see," Deucalion muttered, flipping quickly to the table of contents. "Laws of the Pitch, no . . . Laws Pertaining to the Uniform . . . Laws and Guidebook to International Matches . . . Laws Prohibiting Referee Damage and Disfigurement — Dad loves that one! Aha! Chapter Thirty-Six: Broomsticks and Equipment."

"Why is that covered near the end of the book?" Ivan said. He was reading from his own, equally battered and note-riddled copy of the rule book. "Law Thirty-Five is about how far food vendors must stand from dangerous mascots during Wold Cup events."

Deucalion responded with a nervous laugh, still unable to shake his concern as he quickly turned to the chapter. He rarely spent any time reading these pages, so they still looked relatively new compared to the rest of the book. No bookmarks. No scribbling in the margins. Now he was reminded why he had not wasted his time memorizing the broom section: the chapter was full of useless photographs and charts on how to properly mount and ride a broomstick. There was no strategy there.

"Listen to this: _It is unadvisable to ride a broom that has difficulty remaining in flight,_" Ivan marveled. "Honestly. Can common sense even be considered advice?"

"Do you see the rule anywhere?" Deucalion said in an irritated tone, not in the mood for snide remarks at the moment. "I don't even know what I'm looking for exactly."

"Broom tampering," Ivan said flatly.

"But I haven't been tampering with any —"

"Here," Ivan interjected, his face growing into a knowing smile as he handed his rule book over to Deucalion, pointing to a paragraph midway down the page. Deucalion instantly began reading in rapt silence.

_Broom modifications are part of the game. If that weren't the case, we'd still be riding uncomfortably atop knotted branches with no Cushioning Charm. There have been many important modifications in the last century, in which we have seen the dawn of the true racing broom._

Adjustments through magic are considered perfectly legal provided that the broom: 1. does not emit any sort of projectiles or bursts of fire, and 2. does not hinder or endanger other players or their broomsticks. Brooms with spell and potion modifications are acceptable, provided proper safety measures are observed. Quidditch officials will inspect every broom before international matches.

Also, using mechanical Muggle devices to enhance performance is not allowed. Imagine broomsticks with motors! Though the very thought is laughable, David Herring of Canada attempted to use such a contraption in 1937.

Deucalion felt his insides lift as he read the last few words. The Super Eagle could fly the Quidditch pitch after all. Of course, even if it weren't legal, the referees at Hogwarts matches rarely knew any rules beyond the basic laws of the game.

"You know what else this means?" Ivan said as he took his book back and answered his own question. "This means we should be able to build our broom without breaking rules. Well . . . Quidditch rules at least. We could even get practice improving our own brooms."

"Would you want to risk that?" Deucalion could imagine accidentally shattering his broom's shaft with a poorly executed spell. From near-death experience, it was disappointing enough to break a broom while riding one, let alone when the broom would be idling on a table.

"You're right," Ivan agreed. "We can't go around destroying everything we own — at least not yet. When do you think you'll get a reply from your dad?"

"Who knows?" Deucalion answered. He knelt down on the cold, stone floor and began repacking everything he had thrown from his bag a minute before. "Dad's probably going to work the tournament through the very end because they usually pick him to officiate the finals. And then there's another problem."

"Which is?"

"Oh, what if my brother Aeson gets ahold of the letter?" Deucalion sighed as he siphoned ink from the cover of his Potions book. Apparently, he had broken a bottle in his haste. "He's ten years old, you know, so he's pretty much bound to lose it before Dad even gets home."

"I'd forgotten he was ten," Ivan said and paused with a look of realization. "That means he'll be joining you on the train next fall. Two Wilcotts at Hogwarts."

"Don't remind me," Deucalion said.

"Your mum will expect you to watch him at all times," Ivan said.

"How can I forget?" Decualion replied, feeling exhausted at the very thought. "And what if, I dunno, ends up in Hufflepuff or something? My dad was a Slytherin too, but that's hardly the case for every Wilcott to slip on the Sorting Hat."

Ivan nodded and looked over at the faraway study table just as Edgar Selwyn broke out with loud, crass remark about a Mudblood in his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Lucius Malfoy, apparently playing the role of loyal puppy to critical acclaim, laughed along with the older students. Driven by the applause, Selwyn began miming wand gestures, and Deucalion could only assume his second Beater was explaining exactly how he'd punish bad blood.

"I have to say, Duke, I think it wouldn't be such a bad thing if Aeson ended up in another House," Ivan said. The Berdahl scowl had reappeared on his features in full.

"Slytherin's not bad," Deucalion said.

"Yeah, but Selwyn is," Ivan replied, his voice hard. "He's really . . . developed his pure-blood mania this summer. And to think that I called him intolerable before."

"Look, Ivan, you'll have to put up with him for two more years," Deucalion said warningly. "Selwyn an idiot for sure, but he's almost certainly going to make the team, unless Nyles Cooper has improved some kind of fantastic over the holidays."

"I know, I know," Ivan said. "I'll try to hold my tongue so long as he attempts to do the same. Speaking of Coop . . . do you really think he's going to try out at Beater again? Why does he keep doing that?"

Deucalion shrugged and pulled out his over-the-top mystical voice. "Who can fathom the mind of Coop?"

He was hoping he could somehow convince Coop from setting his sights on a position that had no realistic openings. When Deucalion advertised "open tryouts," it was technically true for most positions, but not at Beater. He did not like to brag, but he believed Slytherin had the best left-handed Beater pair to come around Hogwarts in some time.

Ivan already had three full years of experience as a starter, and Selwyn had played most of the last two years as a Beater. They somehow ignored off-field dislikes long enough to shatter bones and create general havoc for opponents during matches. Ivan was a deadeye when it came to aim and had developed an unusual, two-handed backhand that would surely make many professionals jealous. Everything about his game was unconventional, yet he had perfected it. He fully understood the angles of the pitch and seemed to always know where the Bludger would turn next.

What Selwyn sometimes lacked in consistency, he made up for in the power he could generate and his "general brutality" on the field, as a reporter once penned. Selwyn kept meticulous track of the injuries he had caused, which both alarmed and pleased Deucalion. Keeping injury statistics was socially horrifying, yet that was the "Way of the Beater."

Last season? Selwyn's Bludger attacks broke seven arms, dislocated ten shoulders, shattered untold fingers, ruined two kneecaps, and cracked one unlucky Gryffindor skull. Not to be forgotten, of course, was the time he caught on of his Chasers, Ro Malfoy, flush in the face with the backswing of his bat. That was a complete, messy disaster.

"What's that face for, Duke? Are you still trying to fathom Coop's mind?"

Deucalion had not realized he had contorted his features into a grimace. "Wha — no, I was just thinking about when Selwyn hit Ro straight in the mouth. I swear the referee almost fainted, and he'd surely seen much worse. Well . . . maybe it looks worse when it's the bat dealing the damage instead of the Bludger."

"But it turned out all right in the end, yeah?" Ivan grinned. "Once she woke up three days later in the Hospital Wing, she put such a hex on Selwyn that he couldn't sit properly for the better part of a week!"

***

The Common Room took on a festival-like atmosphere as Deucalion crossed off the days before Slytherin Quidditch tryouts. Whenever he walked through the Great Hall, the chatter at every table always seemed to be about the upcoming spectacle on Saturday. Would students from other houses be in attendance? Perhaps. Fill the stadium for a glorified practice! He was never secretive about his team's practices or tryouts, which always caused Selwyn to complain.

The interest was not surprising; last year's tryouts came highly anticipated because the team was destined to be frighteningly good. Now in his fourth year as captain, Deucalion suspected his team would be even better.

Crisper flying. Improved passing. More lopsided scores.

The lone eyesore for the squad last year was at Seeker. While Slytherin easily rolled up the score because of unbelievable work at Chaser (thanks in large part to Deucalion himself), the Seeker had actually failed to catch the Snitch in two matches during the season. No real harm done as far as winning or losing was concerned, but it was always difficult to celebrate a team victory after failing at the end.

During the holidays, he had discussed Slytherin's struggles with at Seeker for hours on end with his father while they were on a long train ride toward a junior international tournament in Germany. After a while, March Wilcott had folded his arms and gave Deucalion that knowing look, the expression of wisdom that only came from watching so much Quidditch in his years as a referee. "Duke, you can probably teach a Muggle how to dodge and weave, maybe even perform the Sloth Roll without dying. Any decent instructor can do that. But! When it comes to Seeker, there are two intangibles that can't be taught."

"Luck and build?" Deucalion had guessed. Josef Wronski had established the size standard of the modern Seeker decades ago when he was flying for Poland's national team: short and wiry.

"Eh, that's on the right path, but a small frame isn't necessary because I've seen a few decent Seekers built like giants," his father had responded and he held up two fingers. "Two intangibles. The first is you have to have good eyesight. If you can't see, you'd sure better be the luckiest player on the pitch. Or at least have some decent glasses. Second is the ability to pay attention. You can't underestimate that."

If his father's Quidditch theories were correct, all Deucalion needed to do was find someone who could notice details under pressure and see clearly. Training could eventually take care of the rest.

At least there was hope.

Preparations for the tryouts left precious little time over the next few days for racing broom design, let alone schoolwork. Honestly, Deucalion marveled at how Ivan kept his life in balance, given the difficulty of his course load and the mundane, time-consuming duties of a prefect. Unless he had to monitor the hallways, Ivan was the first asleep at night and often the last to wake up in the morning. All that work and all that sleep, yet he had every assignment completed and his back packed for the next day's subjects. He even told Deucalion that he was making a preliminary list of components and potential charms needed for the racing broom.

"See, Duke, I'm not like other people," Ivan explained over breakfast as he poured himself pumpkin juice, looking very awake and well rested.

"Yes, I'm well aware that you are the different sort," Deucalion replied in banter and stifled a yawn. He had wasted precious hours of sleep working on some dull report for Potions class. He might have skipped the assignment all together, were it not for the fact that he needed to remain permanently in Slughorn's good graces.

"My mother noticed my ability very early in life," Ivan said in a dramatic storytelling voice, which was much too early in the day for that sort of thing. "Yes, yes, she knew I was a special one."

"She noticed you were a wizard, yeah?" Deucalion asked. "Must've been a special day for the whole Berdahl clan."

Ivan continued in the storytelling. "It's like being a wizard of time itself. You see, I am constantly productive. Every afternoon, I sit down in the library and finish everything at once. No distractions. I don't waste time."

"Arguably, you're wasting time right now by having this conversation," Deucalion said, feeling his face turn into a grin as he reached for the pumpkin juice himself.

"Well, I'm not denying that," Ivan said with a laugh before moving seamlessly to one of his serious explanations of how he saw the world. "The common room is full of people who'd rather talk or play games than actually finish assignments. Even that Lockhart kid can discuss this and that all evening — and he doesn't have anything to say or anyone to talk to!"

"I can't disagree there," Deucalion said, suddenly thinking back to the Slytherin tryouts, the near-constant topic on his mind. "Oh, I just hope that Lockhart can at least stay on his broom for trials Saturday."

"That'd be an improvement from last year, but at least he landed safely in the lake."

Deucalion laughed at the recollection of that hopelessly awkward boy veering well away from the pitch and splashing into the lake. It took Lockhart the better part of a year to live down that event, and maybe he never really escaped that moment of embarrassment at all. Who knew? Deucalion never really made it a practice to keep up with the social lives of first and second years.

The morning owls burst into the Great Hall for deliveries, and Deucalion looked up instinctively for Quaffle, who still had not returned with a reply from his father about broom charms. Although his red owl was nowhere in sight, he was certainly not going to leave the table empty handed. Five or six — possibly more — owls descended in his direction, a few of them carrying small packages. Selwyn remarked loudly (either in jealousy or sarcasm) that only Deucalion could receive that many owls in one morning.

"Unbelievable!" Ivan marveled as he moved a few breakfast dishes away from the landing owls. "I'd been wondering where all your fans had gone. You've not had any owls for a few days. Any professions of love?"

"Hmmm ... no, I think I'm safe this time, and thankfully most of this stuff is from clubs by the looks of it," Deucalion replied with a hopeful tone. Whenever his name appeared in the Daily Prophet, he would almost always receive an impassioned letter or two. One older witch told him he was the savior of the English Chasers and mentioned how much her granddaughter adored watching him play. He later discovered that girl was actually Rita Skeeter, some nosy, blonde-headed fifth year in Slytherin.

Deucalion could feel that many eyes in the Great Hall were on him, and who could blame the stares? He had all but disappeared behind a cloud of feathers. With great difficulty, he began untying his letters and parcels from the owls, which were helping themselves to the remains of his breakfast.

As he suspected, most of the post was from professional teams urging him to leave school and start flying immediately. Typical business from the Arrows, Catapults, and Falcons, three teams with deep pockets and not a lot of discretion. The Arrows had all but guaranteed him a swimming pool full of Galleons. It was momentarily tempting, but Deucalion knew he had better stay at Hogwarts. The potential wrath of his mother was all too real if he packed his trunk for Appleby.

In another letter, someone in the Wasps organization had written to thank Deucalion again for attending the match and sent along a nice gold-and-black striped scarf. The Kenmare Kestrels had sent along a nice miniature harp autographed by the starting seven, which was a nice - albeit useless - gift.

Ivan read the discarded letters on the table with interest. "Well, they don't value education much in the Quidditch industry, do they?"

"My dad says most players are real idiots, and I'll believe it," Deucalion said as he gently prodded the lingering owls away from his seat to clear room for his elbows on the table. "Almost every player on England's side never had proper schooling, you know? Forget Hogwarts. Quidditch officials try to find the best young players and pay to have them trained at flying academies."

"But your parents would have none of that?"

"Oh, I never had a chance of going there," Deucalion said. "A national coach came by my house once to discuss the possibility of sending me to an academy. I was only ... let's see ... seven or eight years old at the time maybe. I'll never forget Dad's reply: 'No son of mine is going to end up helplessly stupid and dim-witted like all the boys you put on broomsticks.' Slammed the door in the literal face of that possibility."

Ivan laughed. "I can't believe you've never told me that story! Only your father would tell off a national coach so bluntly."

"So true!" Deucalion said. "Then again, my dad's in a profession where it's his job to tell people off! But don't get me wrong, though. The flying academies look absolutely amazing. Just think of it: sitting on a broom for hours a day."

"That'd probably start to hurt after a while," Ivan said distractedly. He had started his daily routine to be sure he had everything for Transfiguration. It was a useless activity; Ivan had probably never forgotten any class assignment or textbook in his entire life.

Deucalion gathered up his letters, scarf, and useless, and wedged them carelessly into his bag with all his books, including his faithful Quidditch rule book. He could not wait to ride his officially match-legal broom later. Nothing was better than darting around on a pitch, weaving past defending Chasers with their arms raking about for the Quaffle or taking an off-balanced shot at the hoop and knowing without-a-doubt that it was going in cleanly. He could almost hear the eery, rhythmic serpentine hissing sould that would emanate from the Slytherin crowd after each goal.

"Did you not notice we just passed Sigrid?"

"Wha — we did?" Deucalion was jerked abruptly from his daydream and back into a crowded hallway in Hogwarts.

"Yeah, she even smiled and waved," Ivan replied, sounding almost offended that Deucalion had not paid attention to his sister. "First time she's probably ever waved at us in front of her friends. She usually adopts a strict policy of pretending I don't exist when she's with them. There was your chance to impress Sigrid with one of your infectious 'king-of-the-pitch' grins! You know, the smile that gets you out of half your Herbology assignments?"

"I'm well aware of that smile," Deucalion said before he whirled around briefly to catch a glimpse of Sigrid's golden, twisting braid trailing behind her. He nearly ran into a Ravenclaw boy in front of him as he turned back around. "Hey Ivan, since when did you think I could impress your sister? It's never worked before."

"It doesn't mean you shouldn't still try, Duke," Ivan said, elbowing Deucalion in a playful way. But still maybe a little harder than usual. "Effort's half of that losing battle. Besides, I just want to remind you that my sister is countlessly better than that Clio Bridges. More beautiful, more intelligent and far less clumsy."

"Why are we suddenly comparing Sigrid to Clio?" Deucalion asked. He could tell his voice was growing irritated. "Have I professed my love for Clio Bridges recently? No! She's still a clumsy Gryffindor with ink perpetually all over her face. Pretty much the only thing we know about her — outside her habit of spells going horribly wrong — is that she knows an awful lot about racing brooms."

"Don't be swayed by the knowledge of Quidditch," Ivan reminded. "Clio's still the girl who almost killed Flitwick with flying toads. Twice!"

"Oh, I know!" Deucalion said. "Still . . . Clio has an obsession with Silas Fincher's writing, and that has to count for something."

"She has good taste in Quidditch reporters, then," Ivan said. "We can at least give her credit for that. Duke, I swear Sigrid would be the greatest if she had the tiniest respect for Quidditch or Silas Fincher."

Deucalion and Ivan grew quiet as they continued toward Transfiguration. What game was Ivan playing anyway? They both knew Sigrid would never in a thousand lifetimes fall madly in love with him. It had been their running joke for years, something they had even laughed about on the train a few days ago. Deucalion could only guess Ivan wanted him to at least notice and respect the near-flawlessness that was Sigrid Berdahl.

Girls. When was he ever going to figure them out? He could not even figure out Ivan half the time, and he saw him practically all day, every day. All Deucalion had learned was that girls were rarely impressed for long by autographs or newspaper clippings detailing his heroics on a Quidditch pitch.

With a sigh, Deucalion sat at his table, pulled his book free from his crowded bag, and resolved to put the last few minutes behind him. After all, he had a Quidditch team to assemble.


End file.
